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CHARACTERISTICS 


WOMEN, 

MORAL,  POETICAL,  AND  HISTORICAL, 


BY    MRS.  JAMESON, 

AVITIIOK    OF    "  THE    DIARY     OF    AN    ENNTrvfeE,"    "  MEMOIRS    OF 
FEMALE    SOVEREIGNS,"    &C. 


FROM  THE   LAST  LONDON  EDITION. 


BOS  T  O  N : 
PIIILLTPS,    SAMl^SON,    AND    COMPANY. 

1  8  A  3 . 


P  R  E  F  i\  (]  E 

TO  THE   SECOND  EDITION. 


Is  preparing  for  the  press  a  second  edition  of  tiiis  little  work,  the  autlmr 
has  endeavored  to  render  it  more  worthy  of  the  approbation  and  kindly  feeling 
with  which  it  has  been  received;  she  cannot  better  express  her  sense  of  both 
than  by  justifying,  as  far  as  it  is  in  her  power,  the  cordial  and  flattering 
tone  of  all  the  public  criticisms.  It  is  to  the  great  name  of  SiiAKsrEARE, 
that  bond  of  sympathy  among  all  who  speak  his  language,  and  to  tlio  subject 
of  the  work,  not  to  its  own  merits,  that  she  attributes  the  success  it  has 
met  with, — success  the  more  delightful,  because,  in  truth,  it  was  from  the 
very  first  so  entirely  unlooked  for,  as  to  be  a  matter  of  surprise  as  well  as 
of  pleasure   and  gratitude. 

In  this  edition  there  are  many  corrections,  and  some  additions  which  the 
author  hopes  may  be  deemed  improvements.  She  has  been  induced  to  insert 
several  quotations  at  length,  which  were  formerly  only  referred  to,  from 
observing  that  however  familiar  they  may  be  to  the  mind  of  the  reader,  they 
are  always  recognized  with  pleasure — like  dear  domestic  faces ;  and  if  the 
memory  fail  at  the  moment  to  recall  the  lines  or  the  sentiment  to  which  the 
attention  is  directly  required,  few  like  to  interrupt  the  course  of  thought,  or 
undertake  a  journey  from  the  sofa  or  garden-seat  to  the  library,  to  hunt  out 
the   volume,   the   play,   the   passage,   for  themselves. 

When  the  first  edition  was  sent  to  press,  the  author  contemplated  writing 
the  life  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  with  a  reference  to  her  art;  and  deferred  the 
complete  development  of  the  character  of  Lady  Macbeth,  till  she  should  be 
able  to  illustrate  it  by  the  impersonation  and  commentary  of  that  grand  and 
gifted  actress ;  but  the  task  having  fallen  into  other  hands,  the  analysis  of 
the  character  has  been  almost  entirely  re-written,  as  at  first  conceived,  f.r 
rather   restored   to   its  original   form. 

This  little  work,  as  it  now  stands,  forms  only  part  of  a  plan  which  the 
autlior  hopes,  if  life  be  granted  her,  to  accomplish  ; — at  all  events,  life,  while 
it   is  spared,   shall   be   devoted   to  its   fulfilment. 


22::0767 


CONTENTS 


PAeE 

Introdvctios ^ 


CHARACTERS  OF  INTELLECT. 

Portia ' 

Isabella 23 

Beatrice       .....        o 37 

Rosalind '^^ 

CHARACTERS  OF  PASSION  AND  IMAGINATION. 

Juliet 53 

Helena "^9 

Perdita 95 

Viola 103 

OPHELL& 109 

Miranda 1-5 

CHARACTERS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

Hermione l^"^ 

Desdemdna 155 

Imogen 167 

Cordelia 1^9 


viii  CON  T  E  N  T  S 

HISTORICAL  CHARACTERS. 
Cleopatra     


Margaret  of  Anjou 


PAGE 

209 


OCTAVIA  .  ^"^^ 

\T  ....  247 

volumnia 

Constance  of  Bretagne 259 

Elinor  of  Guiesne        .....  .        .        .        .         •  -^^ 

Blanche  of  Castile ...  -oo 


289 


Katiierine  of  Arragon  .  - ^'" 

Lady  Macbeth •    ^^^ 


INTRODUCTION. 


Scene — A    Library. 

ALDA. 

You  will  not  listen  to  me? 

MEDON. 

1  do,  with  all  the  deference  which  befits  a  gentleman  when  a  lady 
holds  forth  on  the  virtues  of  her  own  sex. 

He  is  a  parricide  of  his  mother's  name, 
And  with  an  impious  hand  murders  her  lame, 
That  wrongs  the  praise  of  women;  that  dares  write 
Libels  on  saints,  or  with  foul  ink  requite 
The  milk  they  lent  us. 

Yours  was  the  nobler  birth. 
For  you  from  man  were  made — man  but  of  earth — 
The  son  of  dust! 

ALDA. 

What 's  this  ? 

MEDON. 

"  Only    a  rhyme    I  learned   from   one   I  tallced    withal ; "    't  is    a 

B 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

quotation  from  some  old  poet  that  has  fixed   itself  in  my  memorj' — 
from  Randolph,  I  think. 

ALDA. 

'  T  is  very  justly  thought,  and  very  politely  quoted,  and  my  best 
curtesy  is  due  to  him  and  to  you  : — but  now  -svill  you  listen  to  me  ? 

MEDON. 

With  most  profound  humility. 

ALDA. 

Nay,  then !  I  have  done,  unless  you  will  lay  aside  these  mock  airs 
of  gallantry  and  listen  to  me  for  a  moment !  Is  it  fair  to  bring  a 
second-hand  accusation  against  me,  and  not  attend  to  my  defence  ? 

MEDON. 

Well,  I  will  be  serious. 

ALDA. 

Do  SO,  and  let  us  talk  like  reasonable  beings. 

MEDON. 

Then  tell  me  (as  a  reasonable  woman  you  will  not  be  affronted 
■with  the  question),  do  you  really  expect  that  any  one  will  read  this 
little  book  of  yours  1 

ALDA. 

I  might  answer,  that  it  has  been  a  great  source  of  amusement  and 
interest  to  me  for  several  months,  and  that  so  far  I  am  content:  but 
no  one  writes  a  book  without  a  hope  of  finding  readers,  and  I  shall 
find  a  few.  Accident  first  made  me  an  authoress ;  and  not  now,  nor 
ever,  have  I  written  to  flatter  any  prevailing  fashion  of  the  day  for  the 
sake  of  profit,  though  this  is  done,  I  know,  by  many  who  have  less 
excuse  for  thus  coining  their  brains.  This  little  book  was  undertaken 
without  a  thought  of  fame  or  money  :  out  of  the  fulness  of  my  own 


INTRODUCTION. 


XI 


heart  and  soul  have  I  written  it.  In  the  pleasure  it  has  given  me, 
in  the  new  and  various  views  of  human  nature  it  has  opened  to  me, 
in  the  beautiful  and  soothing  images  it  has  placed  before  me,  in  the 
exercise  and  improvement  of  my  own  faculties,  1  have  already  been 
repaid  :  if  praise  or  profit  come  beside,  they  come  as  a  surplus.  I 
should  be  gratified  and  grateful,  but  I  have  not  sought  for  them, 
nor  worked  for  them.     Do  you  believe  this  1 

MEDON. 

I  do  :  in  this  I  cannot  suspect  you  of  affectation,  for  the  profession 
of  disinterestedness  is  uncalled  for,  and  the  contrary  would  be  too  far 
countenanced  by  the  custom  of  the  day  to  be  matter  of  reserve  or 
reproach.  But  how  could  you  (saving  the  reverence  due  to  a  lady- 
authoress,  and  speaking  as  one  reasonable  being  to  another)  choose 
such  a  threadbare  subject  1 


What  do  you  mean  1 


ALDA. 


MEDON. 


I  presume  you  have  written  a  book  to  maintain  the  superiority  of 
your  sex  over  ours;  for  so  I  judge  by  the  names  at  the  heads  of 
some  of  your  chapters ;  women  fit  indeed  to  inlay  heaven  with  stars, 
but,  pardon  me,  very  unlike  those  who  at  present  walk  upon  this 
earth. 


ALDA. 


Very  unlike  the  fine  ladies  of  your  acquaintance,  I  grant  you ;  but 
as  to  maintaining  the  superiority,  or  speculating  on  the  rights  of 
women — nonsense !  why  should  you  suspect  me  of  such  folly  ? — it  is 
quite  out  of  date.     Why  should  there  be  competition  or  comparison  ? 


MEDON. 


Both  are  ill-judged  and  odious;  but  did  you  ever  meet  with  a 
woman  of  the  world,  who  did  not  abuse  most  heartily  the  whole 
race  of  men? 


xii  INTRODUCTION. 

ALDA. 

Did  you  ever  talk  with  a  man  of  the  \vorldj  who  did  not  speak 
■with  levity  or  contempt  of  the  whole  human  race  of  women  ? 

MEDON. 

Perhaps  I  might  answer  like  Voltaire — "H61asl  ils  pourraient  bien 
avoir  raison  tous  deux."  But  do  you  thence  infer  that  both  are  good 
for  nothing  1 

ALDA. 

Thence  I  infer  that  the  men  of  the  world  and  the  women  of  the 
world  are  neither  of  them — good  for  much. 

MEDON. 

And  you  have  WTilten  a  book  to  make  them  better'^ 

ALBA. 

Heaven  forbid !  else  I  were  only  fit  for  the  next  lunatic  asylum. 
Vanity  rim  mad  never  conceived  such  an  impossible  idea. 

MEDON. 

Then,  in  few  words,  what  is  the  subject,  and  what  the  object  of 
your  book  ? 

ALDA. 

I  have  endeavored  to  illustrate  the  various  modifications  of  which 
the  female  character  is  susceptible,  with  their  causes  and  results.  My 
life  has  been  spent  in  observing  and  thinking ;  I  have  had,  as  you 
well  know,  more  opportunities  for  the  first,  more  leisure  for  the  last, 
than  have  fallen  to  the  lot  of  most  people.  What  I  have  seen,  felt, 
thought,  suffered,  has  led  me  to  form  certain  opinions.  It  appears  to 
me  that  the  condition  of  women  in  society,  as  at  present  constituted, 
is  false  in  itself,  and  injurious  to  them, — that  the  education  of 
women,  as  at  present  conducted,  is  founded  in  mistaken  principles, 
and  tends  to    increase    fearfully  the    sum  of  misery  and  error  in   both 


INTRODUCTION.  xiu 

sexes;  but  I  do  not  choose  presumptuously  to  fling  these  opinions  in 
the  face  of  the  world,  in  the  form  of  essays  on  morality,  and  treatises 
on  education-  I  have  rather  chosen  to  illustrate  certain  positions  by 
examples,  and  leave  my  readers  to  deduce  the  moral  themselves, 
and   draw   their   own  inferences. 

MEDON. 

And  why  have  you  not  chosen  your  examples  from  real  life  ? 
you  might  easily  have  done  so.  You  have  not  been  a  mere 
spectator,  or  a  mere  actor,  but  a  lounger  behind  the  scenes  of 
existence — have  even  assisted  in  preparing  the  puppets  for  the 
stage :  you  might  have  given  us  an  epitome  of  your  experience, 
instead  of  dreaming   over   Shakspeare. 

ALDA. 

I  might  so,  if  I  had  chosen  to  become  a  female  satirist,  which 
1  will  never  be. 

MEDON. 

You  would,  at  least,  stand   a  better  chance  of  being  read. 

ALDA. 

I  am  not  sure  of  that.  The  vile  taste  for  satire  and  personal 
gossip  will  not  be  eradicated,  I  suppose,  while  the  elements  of 
curiosity  and  malice  remain  in  human  nature ;  but  as  a  fashion  ol 
literature,  I  think  it  is  passing  away ; — at  all  events  it  is  not  my 
forte.  Long  experience  of  what  is  called  "  the  world,"  of  the 
folly,  duplicity,  shallowness,  selfishness,  which  meet  us  at  every 
turn,  too  soon  unsettles  our  youthful  creed.  If  it  only  led  to  the 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  it  were  well ;  if  it  only  taught  us 
to  despise  the  illusions  and  retire  from  the  pleasures  of  the 
world,  it  would  be  better.  But  it  destroys  our  belief — it  dims  our 
perception  of  all  abstract  truth,  virtue,  and  happiness;  it  turns  life 
into  a  jest,  and  a  very  dull  one  too.  It  makes  us  indifferent  to 
beauty,  and  incredulous  of  goodness ;    it  teaches  us  to  consider  self 


xiv  INTRODUCTION. 

as  the   centre   on   which  all   actions  turn,  and  to   which  all  motives 
are  to   be  referred. 

MEDON. 

But  this  being  so,  we  must  either  revolve  with  these  earthly 
natures,  and  round  the  same  centre,  or  seek  a  sphere  for  ourselves, 
and   dwell   apart. 

ALDA. 

I  trust  it  is  not  necessary  to  do  either.  While  w'e  are  yet 
young,  and  the  passions,  powers,  and  feelings,  in  their  full  activity, 
create  to  us  a  world  within,  we  cannot  look  fairly  on  the  world 
without : — all  things  then  are  good.  When  first  we  throw  ourselves 
forth,  and  meet  burs  and  briars  on  every  side,  which  stick  in  our 
very  hearts ; — and  fair  tempting  fruits  which  turn  to  bitter  ashes 
in  the  taste,  then  we  exclaim  with  impatience,  all  things  are 
evil.  But  at  length  comes  the  calm  hour,  when  they  who  look 
beyond  the  superficies  of  things  begin  to  discern  their  true 
bearings ;  when  the  perception  of  evil,  or  sorrow,  or  sin,  brings 
also  the  perception  of  some  opposite  good,  w^hich  awakens  our 
indulgence,  or  the  knowledge  of  the  cause  which  excites  our  pity. 
Thus  it  is  with  me.  I  can  smile, — nay,  I  can  laugh  still,  to 
see  folly,  vanity,  absurdity,  meanness,  exposed  by  scornful  wit, 
and  depicted  by  others  in  fictions  light  and  brilliant.  But  these 
very  things,  when  I  encounter  the  reality,  rather  make  me  sad 
than  merry,  and  take  away  all  the  inclination,  if  I  had  the  power, 
to  hold   them   up   to    derision. 

MEDON. 

Linless,  by   doing   so,  you   might   coiTect    them. 

ALDA. 

Correct  them !  Show  me  that  one  human  being  who  has  beeh 
made  essentially  better  by  satire !  O  no,  no !  there  is  something 
in  hiunan  nature  which  hardens  itself  against  the  lash — something  in 
satire  which  excites  only  the  lowest  and  w^orst  of  our  propensities. 
That  avowal  in  Pope — 


INTRODUCTION.  xv 

I   must  be  proud  to   see 
Men  not  afraid   of   God,  afraid   of  me  \ 

— has  ever  filled  me  with  terror   and   pity — 

MEDON. 

From   its   truth  perhaps  1 

ALDA. 

From  its  arrogance, — for  the  truth  is,  that  a  vice  never  corrected 
a  vice.  Pope  might  be  proud  of  the  terror  he  inspired  in  those 
who  feared  no  God;  in  whom  vanity  was  stronger  than  conscience; 
out  that  terror  made  no  individual  man  better ;  and  while  he 
indulged  his  own  besetting  sin,  he  administered  to  the  malignity 
of  others.  Your  professed  satirists  always  send  me  to  think  upon 
the  opposite  sentiment  in  Shakspeare,  on  "  the  mischievous  foul 
sin  of  chiding  sin. "  I  remember  once  hearing  a  poem  of  Barry 
Cornwall's  (he  read  it  to  me),  about  a  strange  winged  creature 
that,  having  the  lineaments  of  a  man,  yet  preyed  on  a  man,  and 
afterwards  coming  to  a  stream  to  drink,  and  beholding  his  own 
face  therein,  and  that  he  had  made  his  prey  of  a  creature  like 
himself,  pined  away  with  repentance.  So  should  those  do,  who 
having  made  themselves  mischievous  mirth  out  of  the  sins  and 
sorrows  of  others,  remembering  their  own  humanity,  and  seeing 
within  themselves  the  same  lineaments — so  should  thei/  grieve  and 
pine   away,   self-punished. 

MEDON. 

'Tis   an  old   allegory,  and   a  sad   one — and  but  too  much  to   the 
purpose. 

ALDA. 

I  abhor  the  spirit  of  ridicule — 1  dread  it  and  I  despise  it.  1 
abhor  it  because  it  is  in  direct  contradiction  to  the  mild  and 
serious  spirit  of  Christianity ;  I  fear  it  because  we  find  that  in 
every  state  of  society   in  which  it  has  prevailed   as  a  fashion,   and 


XVI  INTRODUCTION. 

has  given  the  tone  to  the  manners  and  literature,  it  marked 
moral  degradation  and  approaching  destruction  of  that  society;  and 
I  despise  it,  because  it  is  the  usual  resource  of  the  shallow  and 
the  base  mind,  and,  when  wielded  by  the  strongest  hand  with  the 
purest  intentions,  an  inefficient  means  of  good.  The  spirit  of 
satire,  reversing  the  spirit  of  mercy  which  is  twice  blessed,  seems 
to  me  twice  accursed; — evil  in  those  who  indulge  it — evil  to  those 
who    are   the   objects   of  it. 

MEDON. 

"  Peut-etre  fallait-il  que  la  punition  des  imprudens  et  des  faibles 
fut  confiee  a  la  malignite,  car  la  pure  vertu  n'eut  jamais  et6  assez 
cruelle.  " 

ALDA. 

That  is   a  woman's   sentiment. 


MEDO.N. 

True — it  was ;  and  I  have  pleasure  in  reminding  you  that  a  female 
satirist  by  profession  is  yet  an  anomaly  in  the  history  of  our 
literature,  as  a  female  schismatic  is  yet  unknown  in  the  history  of 
our  religion.  But  to  what  do  you  attribute  the  number  of  satirical 
women  we  meet   in   society  ? 

ALDA. 

Not  to  our  nature ;  but  to  a  state  of  society  in  which  the 
levelling  spirit  of  persiflage  has  been  long  a  fashion ;  to  the 
perverse  education  which  fosters  it ;  to  affections  disappointed  or 
unemployed,  which  embitter  the  temper ;  to  faculties  misdirected 
or  wasted,  which  oppress  and  irritate  the  mind ;  to  an  utter 
ignorance  of  ourselves,  and  the  common  lot  of  humanity,  combined 
with  quick  and  refined  perceptions  and  much  superficial  cultivation;  to 
frivolous  habits  which  make  serious  thought  a  burthen,  and  serious 
feeling,  a  bane,  if  suppressed, — if  betrayed,  a  ridicule.  Women, 
generally  speaking,   are    by  nature  too  much    subjected   to   suffering 


I  N  T  R  O  D  U  C  T  I  O  xN  .  xvii 

ill  many  forms — have  too  much  of  fancy  and  sensibility,  and  too 
much  of  that  faculty  which  some  philosophers  call  veneration,  to 
be  naturally  satirical. — I  have  known  but  one  woman  eminently 
gifted  in  mind  and  person,  who  is  also  distinguished  for  powers  of 
satire  as  bold  as  merciless;  and  she  is  such  a  compound  of  all 
that  nature  can  give  of  good,  and  all  that  society  can  teach  of  evil  — 

MEDON, 

That  she    reminds  us  of  the  dragon  of  old,    which    was    generated 
between  the  sun-beams  from  heaven  and  the  slime  of  earth. 


ALDA. 

No  such  thing.  Rather  of  the  powerful  and  beautiful  fairy 
Melusina,  who  had  every  talent  and  every  charm  under  heaven ;  but 
once  in  so  many  hours  was  fated  to  become  a  serpent.  No,  I  return 
to  my  first  position.  It  is  not  by  exposing  folly  and  scorning  fools, 
that  we  make  other  people  wiser,  or  ourselves  happier.  But  to 
soften  the  heart  by  images  and  examples  of  the  kindly  and  generous 
affections — to  show  how  the  human  soul  is  disciplined  and  perfected 
by  suffering — to  prove  how  much  of  possible  good  may  exist  in 
things  evil  and  perverted — how  much  hope  there  is  for  those  who 
despair — how  much  comfort  for  those  whom  a  heartless  world  has 
taught  to  contemn  both  others  and  themselves,  and   so  put  barriers  to 

the  hard,  cold,  selfish,  mocking  and  levelling  spirit  of  the  day 0 

would  I  could  do  this! 

MEDOX. 

Qn  the  same  principle,  I  suppose,  that  they  have  chano-ed  the 
treatment  of  lunatics ;  and  whereas  they  used  to  condemn  poor 
distempered  wretches  to  straw  and  darkness,  stripes  and  a  strait 
waistcoat,  they  now  send  them  to  sunshine  and  green  fields,  to 
wander  in  gardens  among  birds  and  flowers,  and  soothe  them  with 
soft  music  and  kind  flattering  speech. 

•ALDA. 

You  laugh  at  me  !  perhaps  I  deserve  it. 

c 


INTRODUCTION. 


MEDON. 


No,  in  truth;  I  am  a  little  amused,  but  most  honestly  attentive: 
and  perhaps  \vish  I  could  think  more  like  you.  But  to  proceed :  I 
allow  that,  with  this  view  of  the  case,  you  could  not  well  have  chosen 
your  illustrations  from  real   life ;  but  why  not  from  history  ? 

ALDA. 

As  far  as  history  could  guide  me,  1  have  taken  her  with  me  in 
one  or  two  recent  publications,  which  all  tend  to  the  same  object. 
Nor  have  I  here  lost  sight  of  her  ;  but  I  have  entered  on  a  land 
where  she  alone  is  not  to  be  trusted,  and  may  make  a  pleasant 
companion  but  a  most  fallacious  guide.  To  drop  metaphor :  history 
informs  us  that  such  things  have  been  done  or  have  occurred;  but 
when  we  come  to  inquire  into  motives  and  characters,  it  is  the  most 
false  and  partial  and  unsatisfactory  authority  we  can  refer  to.  Women 
are  illustrious  in  history,  not  from  what  they  have  been  in  themselves, 
but  generally  in  proportion  to  the  mischief  they  have  done  or  caused. 
Those  characters  best  fitted  to  my  purpose  are  precisely  those  of 
wliich  history  never  heard,  or  disdains  to  speak;  of  those  which 
have  been  handed  down  to  us  by  many  different  authorities  under 
different  aspects  we  cannot  judge  without  prejudice ;  in  others  there 
occur  certain  chasms  which  it  is  difficult  to  supply ;  and  hence 
inconsistencies  we  have  no  means  of  reconciling,  though  doubtless 
they   might   be  reconciled    if    we  knew  the  whole,  instead   of  a  part. 

MEDOX. 

But   instance — instance  ! 

ALDA. 

Examples  crowd  upon  me;  but  take  the  first  that  occurs.  Do 
you  remember  that  Duchesse  de  Longueville,  whose  beautiful  picture 
we  were  looking  at  yesterday  ? — the  heroine  of  the  Fronde  1 — 
think  of  that  woman — bold,  intriguing,  profligate,  vain,  ambitious, 
factious  ! — who  made  men  rebels  with  a  smile ; — or  if  that  were 
not  enough,  the  lady  was  not  scrupulous, — apparently  without  any 
principle    as  without    shame,   nothing    was    too   much !      And    then 


INTRODUCTION.  xi.x 

think  of  the  same  woman  protecting  the  \iituous  philosopher 
Arnaukl,  when  he  was  denounced  and  condemned ;  and  from 
motives  which  her  worst  enemies  could  not  malign,  secreting  him 
in  her  house,  unknown  even  to  her  own  servants — preparing  his 
food  herself,  watching  for  his  safety,  and  at  length  saving  him. 
Her  tenderness,  her  patience,  her  discretion,  her  disinterested 
benevolence,  not  only  defied  danger  (that  were  little  to  a  woman 
of  her  temper),  but  endured  a  lengthened  trial,  all  the  ennui 
caused  by  the  necessity  of  keeping  the  house,  continual  self-control, 
and  the  thousand  small  daily  sacrifices,  which,  to  a  vain,  dissipated, 
proud,  impatient  woman,  must  have  been  hard  to  bear.  Now  if  • 
Shakspeare  had  drawn  the  character  of  the  Duchesse  de  Longueville, 
he  would  have  shown  us  the  same  individual  woman  in  both 
situations : — for  the  same  being,  with  the  same  faculties,  and  passions, 
and  powers,  it  surely  was  :  whereas  in  history,  we  see  in  one  case  a 
fury  of  discord,  a  woman  without  modesty  or  pity;  and  in  the  other 
an  angel  of  benevolence,  and  a  worshipper  of  goodness ;  and  nothing 
to  connect  the  two  extremes  in  our  fancy. 

MEDON. 

But  these  are  contradictions  which  we  meet  on  every  page  of 
history,  which  make  us  giddy  with  doubt  or  sick  with  belief; 
and  are  the  proper  subjects  of  inquiry  for  the  moralist  and  the 
philosopher. 

ALDA. 

I  cannot  say  that  professed  moralists  and  philosophers  did  much 
to  help  me  out  of  the  dilemma ;  but  the  riddle  which  history 
presented  I  found  solved  in  the  pages  of  Shakspeare.  There 
the  crooked  appeared  straight ;  the  inaccessible,  easy ;  the  incompre- 
hensible, plain.  All  I  sought,  I  found  there;  his  characters  combine 
history  and  real  life;  they  are  complete  individuals,  whose  hearts 
and  souls  are  laid  open  before  us;  all  may  behold,  and  all 
judge  for   themselves. 

MEDON. 

But   all  will    not  judge   alike. 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

ALDA. 

No ;  and  herein  lies  a  part  of  their  wonderful  truth.  We 
hear  Shakspeare's  men  and  women  discussed,  praised  and  dispraised, 
liked,  disliked,  as  real  human  beings;  and  in  forming  our  opinions 
of  them,  we  are  influenced  by  our  own  characters,  habits  of  thought, 
prejudices,  feelings,  impulses,  just  as  we  are  influenced  with  regard 
to   our   acquaintances   and   associates. 

MEDON. 

But   we   are  then   as  likely   to   misconceive   and   misjudge  them. 

ALDA. 

Yes,  if  we  had  only  the  same  imperfect  means  of  studymg 
them.  But  we  can  do  with  them  what  we  cannot  do  with  real 
people :  we  can  unfold  the  whole  character  before  us,  stripped  of 
all  pretensions  of  self-love,  all  disguises  of  manner.  We  can 
take  leisure  to  examine,  to  analyze,  to  correct  our  own  impressions, 
to  watch  the  rise  and  progress  of  various  passions — we  can  hate, 
love,  approve,  condemn,  without  offence  to  others,  without  pain  to 
ourselves. 

MEDON. 

In  this  respect  they  may  be  compared  to  those  exquisite  anatomical 
preparations  of  wax,  which  those  who  could  not  without  disgust 
and  horror  dissect  a  real  specimen,  may  study,  and  learn  the 
mysteries  of  our  frame,  and  all  tlic  internal  workings  of  the 
wondrous    machine   of    life. 

ALDA. 

And  it  is  the  safer  and  the  better  way — for  us  at  least.  But 
look — that  brilliant  rain-drop  trembling  there  in  the  sunshine 
suggests  to  me  another  illustration.  Passion,  when  we  contemplate 
it  through  the  medium  of  imagination,  is  like  a  ray  of  light 
transmitted  through  a  prism ;  we  can  calmly,  and  with  undazzled 
f'Ve,   study   its   complicate   nature,   and    analyze  its    variety   of    tints ; 


INTRODUCTION.  xxi 

but  passion  brought  home  to  us  in  its  reality,  through  our  own 
feelings  and  experience,  is  like  the  same  ray  transmitted  through 
a  lens, — ^blinding,   burning,   consuming   where   it  falls. 

MEDOX. 

Your  illustration  is  the  most  poetical,  I  allow ;  but  not  the  most 
just.  But  tell  me,  is  the  ground  you  have  taken  sufficiently  large  '? 
— is  the  foundation  you  have  chosen  strong  enough  to  bear  the 
moral  superstructure  you  raise  upon  it  1  You  know  the  prevalent 
idea  is,  that  Shakspeare's  women  are  inferior  to  his  men.  This 
assertion   is   constantly   repeated,  and   has    been    but    tamely   refuted. 

ALDA. 

Professor  Richardson  ? — 

MEDON. 

He  is  as  dry  as  a  stick,  and  his  refutation  not  successful  even 
as  a  piece  of  logic.  Then  it  is  not  sufficient  for  critics  to  assert 
this  inferiority  and  w^ant  of  variety :  they  first  assume  the  fallacy, 
then  argue  upon  it.  Gibber  accounts  for  it  from  the  circumstance 
that  all  the  female  parts  in  Shakspeare's  time  were  acted  by  boys 
— there  were  no  women  on  the  stage ;  and  Mackenzie,  who  ought 
to  have  known  better,  says  that  he  was  not  so  happy  in  his 
delineations  of  love  and  tenderness,  as  of  the  other  passions;  because 
forsooth,  the  majesty  of  his  genius  could  not  stoop  to  the  refinements 
of    delicacy  ; — preposterous  ! 

ALDA. 

Stay !  before  we  waste  epithets  of  indignation  let  us  consider. 
If  these  people  mean  that  Shakspeare's  w^omcn  are  inferior  in 
power  to  his  men,  I  grant  it  at  once ;  for  in  Shakspeare  the  male 
and  female  characters  bear  precisely  the  same  relation  to  each  other 
that  they  do  in  nature  and  in  society — they  are  not  equal  in 
prominence  or  in  power — they  are  subordinate  throughout. 
Richardson  remarks,  that  "  if  situation  influences  the  mind,  and  if 
uniformity    of    conduct    be    frequently    occasioned  by  uniformity  of 


xxii  1  N  T  II  O  D  U  C  T  I  O  N  . 

condition,  there  must  be  a  greater  diversity  of  male  than  of 
female  characters," — which  is  true;  add  to  this,  om-  limited  sphere 
of  action,  consequently  of  experience, — the  habits  of  self-control 
rendering  the  outward  distinctions  of  character  and  passion  less 
striking  and  less  strong — all  this  w^e  see  in  Shakspeare  as  in  nature: 
for  instance,  Juliet  is  the  most  impassioned  of  his  female  characters, 
l)ut  what  are  her  passions  compared  to  those  which  shake  the  soul 
of  Othello? 

"Even  as  the  dew-drop  on  the  myrtle-leaf 
To  the  vex'd  sea." 

Look  at  Constance,  frantic  for  the  loss  of  her  son — then  look  at 
Lear,  maddened  by  the  ingratitude  of  his  daughters:  why  it  is  the 
west  wind  bowing  those  aspen  tops  that  wave  before  our  window, 
compared  to  the  tropic  hurricane,  when  forests  crash  and  bm-n,  and 
mountains   tremble   to   their   bases 

MEDON. 

True;  and  Lady  Macbeth,  with  all  her  soaring  ambition,  her  vigor 
of  intellect,  her  subtlety,  her  courage,  and  her  cruelty — what  is  she, 
compared   to   Richard  IIL  1 

I  will  tell  you  what  she  is — she  is  a  woman.  Place  Lady 
Macbeth  in  comparison  with  Richard  IIL,  and  you  see  at  once 
the  essential  distinction  between  masculine  and  feminine  ambition — 
though  both  in  extreme,  and  overleaping  all  restraints  of  conscience 
or  mercy.  Richard  says  of  himself,  that  he  has  "  neither  pity, 
love,  nor  fear;"  Lady  Macbeth  is  susceptible  of  all  three.  You 
smile  !  but  that  remains  to  be  proved.  The  reason  that  Shakspeare's 
wicked  women  have  such  a  singular  hold  upon  our  fancy,  is  from 
the  consistent  preservation  of  the  feminine  character,  which  renders 
them  more  terrible,  because  more  credible  and  intelligible — not  like 
those  monstrous   caricatures   we   meet   with   in   history — 

MEDON. 

In   history  ? — this   is   new  ! 


INTRODUCTION.  xxiii 

ALDA. 

Yes!  I  repeat,  in  history,  where  certain  isolated  facts  and  actions 
are  recorded,  without  any  relation  to  causes,  or  motives,  or  connectino- 
feelings;  and  pictures  exhibited,  from  which  the  considerate  mind 
turns  in  disgust,  and  the  feeling  heart  has  no  relief  but  in  positive, 
and  I  may  add,  reasonable  incredulity.  I  have  lately  seen  one  of 
Correggio's  finest  pictures,  in  which  the  three  Furies  are  represented, 
not  as  ghastly  deformed  hags,  with  talons,  and  torches,  and  snaky 
hair,  but  as  young  women,  with  fine  luxuriant  forms  and  regular 
features,  and  a  single  serpent  wreathing  the  tresses  like  a  bandeau 
— but  such  countenances! — such  a  hideous  expression  of  malice, 
cunning,  and  cruelty! — and  the  effect  is  beyond  conception  appalling. 
Leonardo  da  Vinci  worked  upon  the  same  grand  principle  of  art 
in  his  Medusa — 

Where  it  is  less  the  horror  than  tlie  grace 
Which  turns  the  gazer's  s})irit  into  stone — 

*  *  *  *  *        * 

'Tis  the  melodious  tints  of  beauty  thrown 
Athwart  the  hue  of  guilt  and   glare  of  pain, 
That  humanize  and  harmonize  tlie  strain. 

And  Shakspeare,  who  understood  all  truth,  worked  out  his 
(conceptions  on  the  same  principle,  having  said  himself,  that  "  proper 
deformity  shows  not  in  the  fiend  so  horrid  as  in  woman."  Hence 
it  is  that  whether  he  portrayed  the  wickedness  founded  in  perverted 
power,  as  in  Lady  Macbeth ;  or  the  wickedness  founded  in 
weakness,  as  in  Gertrade,  Lady  Anne,  or  Cressida,  he  is  the  more 
fearfully  impressive,  because  we  cannot  claim  for  ourselves  an 
exemption  from  the  same  nature,  before  which,  in  its  corrupted 
state,   we  tremble   with   horror   or    shrink  with  diso;ust. 


MEDON. 

Do  you  remember  that  some  of  the  commentators  of  Shakspeare 
have  thought  it  incumbent  on  their  gallantry  to  express  their  utter 
contempt  for  the  scene  between  Richard  and  Lady  Anne,  as  ? 
monstrous   and   incredible   libel  on   your   sex. 


xxiv  I  N  T  R  O  D  r  C  T  I  t^  N  . 

ALDA. 

They  might  have  spared  themselves  the  trouble.  Lady  Anne  if» 
just  one  of  those  Avomen  "whom  we  see  walking  in  crowds  through 
the  drawing-rooms  of  the  world — the  puppets  of  habit,  the  fools  of 
fortune,  without  any  particular  inclination  for  vice,  or  any  steady 
principle  of  virtue ;  whose  actions  are  inspired  by  vanity,  not 
affection,  and  regulated  by  opinion,  not  by  conscience :  who  are  good 
while  there  is  no  temptation  to  be  otherwise,  and  ready  victims  of 
the  first  soliciting  to  evil.  In  the  case  of  Lady  Anne,  we  are 
startled  by  the  situation  :  not  three  months  a  widow,  and  following 
to  the  sepulchre  the  remains  of  a  husband  and  a  father,  she  is  met 
and  wooed  and  won  by  the  very  man  who  murdered  them.  In  such 
a  ease  it  required  perhaps  either  Richard  or  the  arch-fiend  himself 
to  tempt  her  successfully  ;  but  in  a  less  critical  moment,  a  far  less 
subtle  and  audacious  seducer  would  have  sufficed.  Cressida  is  another 
modification  of  vanity,  w'eakness,  and  falsehood,  drawn  in  stronger 
colors.  The  world  contains  many  Lady  Annes  and  Cressidas,  polished 
and  refined  externally,  whom  chance  and  vanity  keep  right,  whom 
chance  and  vanity  lead  wrong,  just  as  it  may  happen.  When 
we  read  in  history  of  the  enormities  of  certain  women,  perfect 
scarecrows  and  ogresses,  we  can  safely,  like  the  Pharisee  in 
Scripture,  hug  ourselves  in  our  secure  virtue,  and  thank  God  that 
we  are  not  as  others  are : — but  the  wicked  women  in  Shakspeare 
are  portrayed  with  such  perfect  consistency  and  truth,  that  "  Ihey 
leave  us  no  such  resource — they  frighten  us  into  reflection — they 
make  us  believe  and  tremble.  On  the  other  hand,  his  amiable 
women  are  touched  with  such  exquisite  simplicity — they  have  so 
little  external  pretension — and  are  so  unlike  the  usual  heroines  of 
tragedy  and  romance,  that  they  delight  us  more  "  than  all  the 
nonsense  of  the  beau-ideal  ! "  We  are  flattered  by  the  perception 
of  our  own  nature  in  the  midst  of  so  many  charms  and  virtues : 
not  only  are  they  what  we  could  wish  to  be,  or  ought  to  be, 
but  what  we  persuade  ourselves  we  might  be,  or  would  be,  under 
a  different  and  a  happier  state  of  things,  and,  perhaps,  some  time 
or  other  may  be.  They  are  not  stuck  up,  like  the  cardinal 
virtues,    all  in   a  row,    for   us  to   admire   and  wonder   at — they   are 


INTRODUCTION 


XXV 


not    mere     poetical    abstractions — nor    (as    they    have    been   termed) 
mere  abstracts  of  the  affections, — 

But  common  clay  ta'en  from  the  common  earth, 
JNloulded  by  God,  and  tempted  by  the  tears 
Of  angels,  to  the  perfect  form  of — woman. 

MEDON. 

Beautiful  lines  ! — Where    are  they  Z 

ALDA. 

I  quote  from  memory,  and  I  am  afraid  inaccuratelyj  from  a  poem 
of  Alfred  Tennyson's. 

JMEDON. 

Well,  between  argument,  and  sentiment,  and  logic,  and  poetry, 
you  are  making  out  a  very  plausible  case.  I  think  with  you, 
that,  in  the  instances  you  have  mentioned  (a  Lady  Macbeth  and 
Richard,  Juliet  and  Othello,  and  others),  the  want  of  comparative 
power  is  only  an  additional  excellence ;  but  to  go  to  an  opposite 
extreme  of  delineation,  we  must  allow  that  there  is  not  one  of 
Shakspeare's  women  that,  as  a  dramatic  character,  can  be  compared 
to   Falstaff 

ALDA. 

No ;  because  anything  like  Falstaff  in  the  form  of  woman — any 
such  compound  of  wit,  sensuality,  and  selfishness,  unchecked  by  the 
moral  sentiments  and  the  affections,  and  touched  with  the  same 
vigorous  painting,  would  be  a  gross  and  monstrous  caricature.  If 
it  could  exist  in  nature  we  might  find  it  in  Shakspeare ;  but  a 
moment's  reflection  shows  us  that  it  would  be  essentially  an 
impossible    combination    of    facvdties    in    a   female. 

MEDON. 

It  strikes  me,  however,  that  his  humorous  women  are  feebly 
Irawn,  in  comparison  with  some  of  the  female  wits  of  other  writers. 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION. 

ALDA. 

Because  his  women  of  ^vit  and  humor  are  not  introduced  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  saying  brilliant  things,  and  displaying  the  wit 
of  the  author ;  they  are,  as  I  will  show  you,  real,  natural  women, 
in  whom  lait  is  only  a  particular  and  occasional  modification  of 
intellect.  They  are  all,  in  the  first  place,  affectionate,  thinking 
beings,  and  moral  agents  j  and  then  witty,  as  if  by  accident,  or 
as  the  Duchesse  de  Chaulnes  said  of  herself,  "  par  la  grace  de 
Dieu "  As  to  humor,  it  is  carried  as  far  as  possible  in  Mrs. 
Quickly;  in  the  termagant  Catherine;  in  Maria,  in  '•'Twelfth 
Night ; "  in  Juliet's  nurse ;  in  Mrs.  Ford  and  Mrs.  Page.  What 
can  exceed  in  humorous  naivete,  Mrs.  Quickly's  upbraiding  FalstafF, 
and  her  concluding  appeal — "  Didst  thou  not  kiss  me,  and  bid  me 
fetch  thee  thirty  shillings  1  "  Is  it  not  exquisite — irresistible  7  Mrs. 
Ford  and  Mrs.  Page  are  both  "  merry  wives,"  but  how  perfectly 
discriminated !  Mrs.  Ford  has  the  most  good  nature — Mrs.  Page  is 
the  cleverer  of  the  two,  and  has  more  sharpness  in  her  tongue, 
more  mischief  in  her  mirth.  In  all  these  instances  I  allow  that 
the  humor  is  more  or  less  vulgar;  but  a  humorous  woman,  whether 
in   high   or  low   life,   has   always    a  tinge  of    vulgarity. 

MEDON. 

1  should  like  to  see  that  word  vulgar  properly  defined,  and  its 
meaning  limited — at  present  it  is  the  most  arbitrary  word  in  the 
language. 

ALDA. 

Yes,  like  the  word  romantic,  it  is  a  convenient  "  exploding 
word,"  and  in  its  general  application  signifies  nothing  more  than 
"see  how  much  finer  I  am  than  other  people!"*  but  in  literature 
and  character  I  shall  adhere  to  the  definition  of  Madame  de 
Staiil,  who  uses  the  word  vulgar  as  the  reverse  of  poetical. 
Vulgarity  (as  I  wish  to  apply  the  word)  is  the  negative  in  all 
things.     In   literature,   it  is  the  total    absence   of    elevation  and  depth 

•  See  Foster's  Essay  on   the   application  of  the  word   romantic. — Essays,  vol.  i. 


I  N  T  R  (>  D  IT  C  T  I  O  N  .  xxvii 

ill  the  ideas,  and  of  elegance  and  delicacy  in  the  expression  of 
them.  In  character,  it  is  the  absence  of  truth,  sensibility,  and 
reflection.  The  vulgar  in  manner,  is  the  result  of  vulgarity  of 
character ;  it  is  grossness,  hardness,  or  affectation. — If  you  would 
see  how  Shakspeare  has  discriminated,  not  only  different  degrees, 
but  different  kinds  of  plebeian  vulgarity  in  woman,  you  have  only 
to  compare  the  nurse  in  Romeo  and  Juliet  with  Mrs  Quickly. 
On  the  whole,  if  there  are  people  who,  taking  the  strong  and 
essential  distinction  of  sex  into  consideration,  still  maintain  that 
Shakspeare's  female  characters  are  not,  in  truth,  in  variety,  in 
power,  equal  to  his  men,  I  think  I  shall  prove  the  contrary. 

MEDON. 

I  observe  that  you  have  divided  your  illustrations  into  classes; 
but  shades  of  character  so  melt  into  each  other,  and  the  various 
faculties  and  powers  are  so  blended  and  balanced,  that  all 
classification  must  be  arbitrary.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conceive  where 
you  have  drawn  the  line;  here,  at  the  head  of  your  first  chapter, 
I  find  "  Characters  of  Intellect" — do  you  call  Portia  intellectual, 
and   Hermione   and   Constance  not  so  ? 


ALDA. 

I  know  that  Schlegel  has  said  that  it  is  impossible  to  arrange 
Shakspeare's  characters  in  classes :  yet  some  classification  was 
necessary  for  my  purpose.  I  have  therefore  divided  them  into 
characters  in  which  intellect  and  wit  predominate ;  characters  in 
which  fancy  and  passion  predominate ;  and  characters  in  which  the 
moral  sentiments  aiul  affections  predominate.  The  historical 
characters  I  have  considered  apart,  as  requiring  a  different  mode 
of  illustration.  Portia  I  regard  as  a  perfect  model  of  an 
intellectual  woman,  in  whom  wit  is  tempered  by  sensibility,  and 
fancy  regulated  by  strong  reflection.  It  is  objected  to  her,  to 
Beatrice,  and  others  of  Shakspeare's  women,  that  the  display  of 
intellect  is  tinged  with  a  coarseness  of  manner  belonging  to  the 
age  in  which  he  wrote.  To  remark  that  the  conversation  and 
letters   of    highbred   and    virtuous    women  of    that    time   were    more 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION. 

bold  and  frank  in  expression  than  any  part  of  the  dialogue 
appropriated  to  Beatrice  and  Rosalind,  may  excuse  it  to  our 
judfrment,  but  does  not  reconcile  it  to  our  taste.  Much  has  been 
said,  and  more  might  be  said  on  this  subject — but  I  "would  rather 
not  discuss  it.  It  is  a  mere  difference  of  manner  which  is  to 
be  regretted,  but  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  essence  of  the 
character. 

ME  DON. 

I  think  you  have  done  well  in  avoiding  the  topic  altogether  ;  but 
between  ourselves,  do  you  really  think  that  the  refinement  of  manner, 
the  censorious,  hj'pocritical,  verbal  scrupulosity,  which  is  carried  so 
far  in  this  "  picked  age"  of  ours,  is  a  true  sign  of  superior  refinement 
of  taste,  and  purity  of  morals  1  Is  it  not  rather  a  whiting  of  the 
sepulchre  ?  I  will  not  even  allude  to  individual  instances  whom  we 
both  know,  but  does  it  not  remind  you,  on  the  whole,  of  the  tone 
of  French  manners  previous  to  the  revolution — that  "  decence,"  which 
Horace  Walpole  so  admired,*  veiling  the  moral  degradation,  the 
inconceivable  profligacy  of  the  higher  classes  ? — Stay — I  have  not  yet 
rlonf^ — not  to  you,  but  foj'  you,  I  will  add  thus  much  : — our  modern 
idea  of  delicacy  apparently  attaches  more  importance  to  words  than 
to  things — to  manners  than  to  morals.  You  will  hear  people  inveigh 
against  the  improprieties  of  Shakspeare,  with  Don  Juan,  or  one  of 
those  infernal  French  novels — I  beg  your  pardon — lying  on  their 
toilet  table.  Lady  Florence  is  shocked  at  the  sallies  of  Beatrice,  and 
Beatrice  would  certainly  stand  aghast  to  see  Lady  Florence  dressed 
for  Almack's ;  so  you  see  in  both  cases  the  fashion  makes  the 
indecorum.     Let  her  ladyship  new  model  her  gowns ! 

ALDA. 

Well,  well,  leave  Lady  Florence — I  would  rather  hear  you  defend 
Shakspeare. 

MKDO\. 

I   think    it    is    Coleridge   who    so    finely  observes,  that    Shakspeare 
*  Correspondence,  vol.  iii. 


INTRODUCTION.  xxix 

ever  kept  the  high  road  of  human  life,  whereon  all  travel,  that  he 
did  not  pick  out  by-paths  of  feeling  and  sentiment;  in  him  we  have 
no  moral  highwaymen,  and  sentimental  thieves  and  rat-catchers,  and 
interesting  villains,  and  amiable,  elegant  adulteresses — a-la-mode 
Germanorum — no  delicate  entanglements  of  situation,  in  which  the 
grossest  images  are  presented  to  the  mind  disguised  under  the 
superficial  attraction  of  style  and  sentiment.  He  flattered  no  bad 
passion,  disguised  no  vice  in  the  garb  of  virtue,  trifled  with  no  just 
and  generous  principle.  He  can  make  us  laugh  at  folly,  and  shudder 
at  crime,  yet  still  preserve  our  love  for  our  fellow  beings,  and  our 
reverence  for  ourselves.  He  has  a  lofty  and  a  fearless  trust  in  his 
own  powers,  and  in  the  beauty  and  excellence  of  virtue ;  and  with 
his  eye  fixed  on  the  lode-star  of  truth,  steers  us  triumphantly  among 
shoals  and  quicksands,  where  with  any  other  pilot  we  had  been 
wrecked  : — for  insiance,  who  but  himself  would  have  dared  to  bring 
into  close  contact  two  such  characters  as  lago  and  Desdemona  1 
Had  the  colors  in  which  he  has  arrayed  Desdemona  been  one  atom 
less  transparently  bright  and  pure,  the  charm  had  been  lost;  she 
could  not  have  borne  the  approximation:  some  shadow  from  the 
overpowering  blackness  of  liis  character  must  have  passed  over  the 
sunbright  purity  of  liers.  For  observe  that  lago's  disbelief  in  the 
virtue  of  Desdemona  is  not  pretended,  it  is  real.  It  arises  from  his 
total  want  of  faith  in  all  virtue;  he  is  no  more  capable  of  conceiving 
goodness,  than  she  is  capable  of  conceiving  evil.  To  the  brutish 
coarseness  and  fiendish  malignity  of  this  man,  her  gentleness  appears 
only  a  contemptible  weakness;  her  purity  of  affection,  which  saw 
"Othello's  visage  in  his  mind,"  only  a  perversion  of  taste;  her 
bashful  modesty,  only  a  cloak  for  evil  propensities;  so  he  represents 
them  with  all  the  force  of  language  and  self-conviction,  and  we 
are  obliged  to  listen  to  him.  He  rips  her  to  pieces  before  us — 
he  would  have  bedeviled  an  angel !  yet  such  is  the  unrivalled, 
though  passive  delicacy  of  the  delineation,  that  it  can  stand  it 
unhurt,  untouched !  It  is  wonderful ! — yet  natural  as  it  is  wonderful ! 
After  all,  there  are  people  in  the  world,  whose  opinions  and 
feelings  are  tainted  by  an  habitual  acquaintance  with  the  evil  side 
of  society,  though  in  action  and  intention  they  remain  right ;  and 
who,  without   the  real  depravity  of   heart  and  malignity  of  intention 


XXX  INTRODUCTION. 

of    lago,  judge    as    he    does   of    the   characters  and    productions    of 
others. 

ALDA. 

Heavens  bless  me  from  such  critics !  yet  if  genius,  youth,  and 
innocence  could  not  escape  unslurred,  can  I  hope  to  do  so  ?  1 
pity  from  my  soul  the  persons  you  allude  to — for  to  such  minds 
there  can  exist  few  uncontaminated  sources  of  pleasure,  either  in 
nature   or   in  art. 

MEDON 

Aye — "  tlie  perfumes  of  Paradise  were  poison  to  the  Dives,  and 
made  them  melancholy. "  *  You  pity  them,  and  they  will  sneer 
at  you.  But  what  have  we  here  ? — "  Characters  of  Imagination — 
Juliet — Viola ; "  are  these  romantic  young  ladies  the  pillars  which 
are  to  sustain  your  moral  edifice  1  Are  they  to  serve  as  examples 
or    as   warnings   for   the   youth   of  this    enlightened    age '? 

ALDA. 

As   warnings   of  course — what  else  1 

MEDON. 

Against  the  dangers  of  romance  ? — but  where  are  they  ? 
"Vraiment,"  as  B.  Constant  says,  "je  ne  vois  pas  qu'en  fait 
d'enthousiasme,  le  feu  soit  a  la  maison. "  Where  are  they — 
these  disciples  of  poetry  and  romance,  these  victims  of  disinterested 
devotion  and  believing  truth,  these  unblown  roses — all  conscience 
and  tenderness — whom  it  is  so  necessary  to  guard  against  too 
much  confidence  in  others,  and  too  little  in  themselves — where  are 
they  ? 

ALDA. 

Wandering  in  the  Elysian  fields,  I  presume,  with  the  romantic 
young     gentlemen,  who   are    too    generous,   too    zealous   in    defence 

•  An   Oriental     jroverb. 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxl 

of    innocence,   too     enthusiastic    in   their    admiration  of    virtue,   too 

violent    in    their    hatred    of     vice,    too    sincere    in  friendship,    too 

faithful    in    love,     too    active    and    disinterested    in  the    ceiuse    of 
truth— 


MEDON. 

Very  fair !  But  seriously,  do  you  think  it  necessary  to  guard 
young  people,  in  this  selfish  and  calculating  age,  against  an  excess 
of  sentiment  and  imagination  ?  Do  you  allow  no  distinction 
between  the  romance  of  exaggerated  sentiment,  and  the  romance 
of  elevated  thought?  Do  you  bring  cold  water  to  quench  the 
smouldering  ashes  of  enthusiasm?  Methinks  it  is  rather  superfluous; 
and  that  another  doctrine  is  needed  to  withstand  the  heartless 
system  of  expediency  which  is  the  favorite  philosophy  of  the  day. 
The  warning  you  speak  of  may  be  gently  hinted  to  the  few  who 
are  in  danger  of  being  misled  by  an  excess  of  the  generous 
impulses  of  fancy  and  feeling  ;  but  need  hardly,  I  think,  be 
proclaimed  by  sound  of  trumpet  amid  the  mocks  of  the  world. 
No,  no  ',  there  are  young  women  in  these  days,  but  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  youth — the  bloom  of  existence  is  sacrificed  to  a 
fashionable  education,  and  where  we  should  find  the  rose-buds  of 
the  spring,  we  see  only  the  full-blown,  flaunting,  precocious  roses 
of  the  hot-bed. 


ALDA. 

Blame  then  that  forcing  system  of  education,  the  most  pernicious, 
the  most  mistaken,  the  most  far-reaching  in  its  miserable  and 
mischievous  effects,  that  ever  prevailed  in  this  world.  The  custom 
which  shut  up  women  in  convents  until  they  were  married,  and 
then  launched  them  innocent  and  ignorant  on  society,  was  bad 
enough ;  but  not  worse  than  a  system  of  education  which  inundates 
us  with  hard,  clever,  sophisticated  girls,  trained  by  knowing  mothers, 
and  all-accomplished  governesses,  with  whom  vanity  and  expediency 
take  place  of  conscience  and  affection — (in  other  words,  of  romance) 
— "  frutto  senile  in  sul  giovenil  fiore ;  "  with  feelings  and  passions 
suppressed    or    contracted,    not    governed    by    higher    faculties    and 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION. 

purer  principles ;  with  whom  opinion — the  same  false  honor  which 
sends  men  out  to  fight  duels — stands  instead  of  the  strength  and 
the  light  of  virtue  within  their  own  souls.  Hence  the  strange 
anomalies  of  artificial  society — girls  of  sixteen  who  are  models  of 
manner,  miracles  of  prudence,  marvels  of  learning,  who  sneer  at 
sentiment,  and  laugh  at  the  Juliets  and  the  Imogens ;  and  matrons 
of  forty,  who,  when  the  passions  should  be  tame  and  wait  upon  the 
judgment,  amaze  the  world  and  put  us  to  confusion  with  their 
doings. 


MEDON. 


Or  turn  politicians  to  vary    the    excitement. — How   I  hate  political 


women 


ALDA. 


Why   do   you   hate   them  1 

SIEDON. 

Because   they    are   mischievous. 

ALDA. 

But   why   are   they   mischievous  1 

MEDON. 

Why ! — why  are  they  mischievous  ?  Nay,  ask  them,  or  ask  the 
father  of  all  mischief,  who  has  not  a  more  efficient  instrument  to 
further  his  designs  in  this  world,  than  a  woman  run  mad  with 
politics.  The  number  of  political  intriguing  women  of  this  time, 
whose  boudoirs  and  drawing-rooms  are  the  foyers  of  party-spirit,  is 
another  trait  of  resemblance  between  the  state  of  society  now  and 
that   which    existed    at   Paris   before   the   revolution. 

ALDA. 

And  do  you  think,  like  some  interesting  young  lady  in  Miss 
Edgeworth's  tales,  that  "  women  have  nothing  to  do  with  politics  V* 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  women  are  not  capable  of  comprehending 
the    principles    of     legislation,    or    of    feeling     an    interest     in     the 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxiii 

government  and  welfare  of  their  country,  or  of  perceiving  and 
sympathizing  in  the  progress  of  great  events  ? — ^That  they  cannot 
feel  patriotism  ?  Believe  me,  when  we  do  feel  it,  our  patriotism, 
like  our  courage  and  our  love,  has  a  purer  source  than  with  you; 
for  a  man's  patriotism  has  always  some  tinge  of  egotism,  while  a 
woman's  patriotism  is  generally  a  sentiment,  and  of  the  noblest  kind. 

MEDON. 

I  agree  in  all  this ;  and  all  this  does  not  mitigate  my  horror 
of  political  women  ia  general,  who  are,  I  repeat  it,  both  mischievous 
and  absurd.  If  you  could  but  hear  the  reasoning  in  these  feminine 
coteries ! but  you  never  talk  politics 

ALDA 

Indeed  I  do,  when  I  can  get  any  one  to  listen  to  me ',  but  I 
prefer  listening.  As  for  the  evil  you  complain  of,  impute  it  to 
that  imperfect  education  which  at  once  cultivates  and  enslaves 
the  intellect,  and  loads  the  memory,  while  it  fetters  the 
judgment.  Women,  however  well  read  in  history,  never  generalize 
in  politics :  never  argue  on  any  broad  or  general  principle ;  never 
reason  from  a  consideration  of  past  events,  their  causes  and 
consequences.  Bufc  they  are  always  political  through  their  affections, 
their  prejudices,  their  personal  liaisons,  their  hopes,  their  fears. 

MEDON. 

If  it  were  no  worse,  I  could  stand  it ;  for  that  is  at  least  feminine. 

ALDA. 

But  most  mischievous.  For  hence  it  is  that  we  make  such  blind 
partizans,  such  violent  party  women,  and  such  wretched  politicians. 
I  never  heard  a  woman  talk  politics,  as  it  is  termed,  that  I  could 
not  discern  at  once  the  motive,  the  affection,  the  secret  bias, 
which  swayed  her  opinions  and  inspired  her  arguments.  If  it 
appeared  to  the  Grecian  sage  so  "  difficult  for  a  man  not  to  love 
himself,  nor  the  things  that  belong  to  him,  but  justice  only  1 " — 
how   much  more  for  women ! 

E 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION. 

MEDON. 

Then  you  think  that  a  better  education,  based  on  truer  moral 
principles,  would  render  women  more  reasonable  politicians,  or  at 
least   give   them   some   right   to   meddle  with   politics  ? 

ALDA. 

It  would  cease  in  that  case  to  be  meddling,  as  you  term  it,  for 
it  would  be  legitimized.  It  is  easy  to  sneer  at  political  and 
mathematical  ladies,  and  quote  Lord  Byron — but  0  leave  those  angry 
common-places  to  others  ! — they  do  not  come  well  from  you.  Do 
not  force  me  to  remind  you,  that  women  have  achieved  enough  to 
silence  them  for  ever ;  *  and  how  often  must  that  truism  be  repeated, 
that  it  is  not  a  woman's  attainments  which  make  her  amiable  or 
unamiable,  estimable  or  the  contrary,  but  her  qualities  1  A  time  is 
coming,  perhaps,  when  the  education  of  women  wall  be  considered, 
with  a  view  to  their  future  destination  as  the  mothers  and  nurses 
of  legislators  and  statesmen,  and  the  cultivation  of  their  powers 
of  reflection  and  moral  feelings  supersede  the  exciting  drudgery  by 
which  they  are  now  crammed  wuth  knowledge   and   accomplishments. 

MEDON. 

Well — till  that  blessed  period  arrives,  I  wish  you  would  leave  us 
the  province  of  politics  to  ourselves.  I  see  here  you  have  treated 
of  a  very  different  class  of  beings,  "  icomen  in  ivhom  the  ajfections 
and  the  moral  sentiments  predominate."  Are  there  many  such,  think 
you,  in   the   world  ? 

ALDA. 

Yes,  many  such ;  the  development  of  affection  and  sentiment  is 
more  quiet  and  unobtrusive  than  that  of  passion  and  intellect,  and 
less   observed ;   it  is  more   common,  too,  therefore  less  remarked :  but 


•  In  our  own  time,  Madame  de  Stael,  Mrs.  Somorville,  Harriet  Martineau,  Mrs. 
Marcet;  we  need  not  go  back  to  the  Rolands  and  Agnesi,  nor  even  to  our  own 
Lucy  Hutchinson. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

in   women   it  generally   gives   the    prevailing    tone   to  the   character, 

except   where   vanity  has   been   made   the   ruling   motive. 

MEDOX. 

Except !  I  admire  your  exception !  You  make  in  this  case  the 
rule  the   exception.     Look   round   the   world. 

ALDA. 

You  are  not  one  of  those  with  whom  that  common  phrase  "  the 
world "  signifies  the  circle,  whatever  and  wherever  that  may  be, 
which  limits  our  individual  experience — as  a  child  considers  the 
visible  horizon  as  the  bounds  which  shut  in  the  mighty  universe. 
Believe  me,  it  is  a  sorry,  vulgar  kind  of  wisdom,  if  it  be  wisdom 
— a  shallow  and  confined  philosophy,  if  it  be  philosophy — which 
resolves  all  human  motives  and  impulses  into  egotism  in  one  sex, 
and  vanity  in  the  other.  Such  may  be  the  way  of  the  world,  as 
it  is  called — the  result  of  a  very  artificial  and  corrupt  state  of 
society,  but  such  is  not  general  nature,  nor  female  nature.  Would 
you  see  the  kindly,  self-sacrificing  affections  developed  under  their 
most  honest  but  least  poetical  guise — displayed  without  any  mixture 
of  vanity,  and  unchecked  in  the  display  by  any  fear  of  being- 
thought  vain  ? — you  will  see  it,  not  among  the  prosperous,  the 
high-born,  the  educated,  "far,  fur  removed  from  want,  and  grief,  and 
fear,"  but  among  the  poor,  the  miserable,  the  perverted — among 
those   habitually   exposed   to    all    influences   that  harden  and   deprave. 

MEDON. 

I  believe  it — nay,  I  know  it;  but  how  should  ijoil  know  it,  or 
anjihing  of  the  strange  places  of  refuge  which  truth  and  nature 
have   found   in   the   two   extremes   of   society '? 

ALDA. 

It  is  no  matter  what  1  have  seen  and  known ;  and  for  the  two 
extremes  of  society,  I  leave  them  to  the  author  of  Paul  Cliflford, 
and  that  most  exquisite  painter  of  living  manners,  Mrs.  Gore. 
St.   Giles's  is  no  more  nature  than  St.  James's.     I  wanted  character 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION. 

in  its  essential  truth,  not  modified  by  particular  customs,  by  fashion, 
by  situation.  I  wished  to  illustrate  the  manner  in  which  the 
affections  would  naturally  display  themselves  in  women — whether 
combined  with  high  intellect,  regulated  by  reflection,  and  elevated 
by  imagination,  or  existing  with  perverted  dispositions,  or  purified 
by  the  moral  sentiments.  I  found  all  these  in  Shakspeare ;  his 
delineations  of  women,  in  whom  the  virtuous  and  calm  affections 
predominate,  and  triumph  over  shame,  fear,  pride,  resentment,  vanity, 
jealousy, — are  particularly  worthy  of  consideration,  and  perfect  in 
their  kind,  because   so    quiet    in   their   effect. 

MEDON. 

Several  critics  have  remarked  in  general  terms  on  those  beautiful 
pictures  of  female  friendship,  and  of  the  generous  affection  of 
women  for  each  other,  which  we  find  in  Shakspeare.  Other  Avriters, 
especially  dramatic  writers,  have  found  ample  food  for  wit  and  satiric 
delineation  in  the  littleness  of  feminine  spite  and  rivalry,  in  the 
mean  spirit  of  competition,-  the  petty  jealousy  of  superior  charms, 
the  mutual  slander  and  mistrust,  the  transient  leagues  of  folly  or 
selfishness  miscalled  friendship — the  result  of  an  education  which 
makes  vanity  the  ruling  principle,  and  of  a  false  position  in  society. 
Shakspeare,  who  looked  upon  women  with  the  spirit  of  humanity^ 
wisdom,  and  deep  love,  has  done  justice  to  their  natural  good 
tendencies  and  kindly  sympathies.  In  the  friendship  of  Beatrice  and 
Hero,  of  Rosalind  and  Celia ;  in  the  description  of  the  girlish 
attachment  of  Helena  and  Hermia,  he  has  represented  truth  and 
generous  affection  rising  superior  to  all  the  usual  sources  of  female 
rivalry  and  jealousy  ;  and  with  such  force  and  simplicity,  and  obvious 
self-conviction,  that  he  absolutely  forces  the  some  conviction  on  us. 


Add  to  these  the  generous  feeling  of  Viola  for  her  rival  Olivia ; 
of  Julia  for  her  rival  Sylvia ;  of  Helena  for  Diana ;  of  the  old 
Countess  for  Helena,  in  the  same  play ;  and  even  the  affection  of 
the  wicked  queen  in  Hamlet  for  the  gentle  Ophelia,  which  prove 
that  Sliakspeare  thought — (and  when    did    he    ever    think    other  than 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxvii 

the  truth  ?) — that  women  have  by  nature  "  virtues  that  are  merciful," 
and  can  he  just,  tender,  and  true  to  their  sister  women,  whatever 
wits  and  worldlings,  and  satirists  and  fashionable  poets,  may  say  or 
sing  of  us  to  the  contrary.  There  is  another  thing  which  he  has 
most  deeply  felt  and  beautifully  represented — the  distinction  between 
masculine  and  feminine  courage.  A  man's  courage  is  often  a  mere 
animal  quality,  and  in  its  most  elevated  form  a  point  of  honor.  But 
a  woman's  courage  is  always  a  virtue,  because  it  is  not  required  of 
us,  it  is  not  one  of  the  means  through  which  we  seek  admiration  and 
applause ;  on  the  contrary,  we  are  courageous  through  our  affections 
and  mental  energies,  not  through  our  vanity  or  our  strength.  A 
woman's  heroism  is  always  the  excess  of  sensibility.  Do  you 
remember  Lady  Faiishawe  putting  on  a  sailor's  jacket,  and  his  "blue 
thrum  cap,"  and  standing  at  her  husband's  side,  unknown  to  him 
during  a  sea-fight  ?  There  she  stood,  all  bathed  in  tears,  but  fixed 
to  that  spot.  Her  husband's  exclamation  when  he  turned  and 
discovered  her — "  Good  God,  that  love  should  make  such  a  change  as 
this  ! "  is  applicable  to  all  the  acts  of  courage  which  we  read  or  hear 
of  in  women.  This  is  the  courage  of  Juliet  when,  after  summing  up 
all  the  possible  consequences  of  her  own  act,  till  she  almost  maddens 
herself  with,  terror,  she  drinks  the  sleeping  potion;  and  for  that 
passive  fortitude  which  is  founded  in  piety  and  pure  strength  of 
affection,  such  as  the  heroism  of  Lady  Russell  and  Gertrude  de  Wart, 
he  has  given  us  some  of  the  noblest  modifications  of  it  in  Hermione, 
in  Covdelia,  in  Imogen,  in  Katherine  of  Arragon. 

MEDON. 

And  what  do  yon  call  the  courage  of  Lady  Macbeth  7 — 

My  hands  are  of  your  color,  but  I  .shame 
To  wear  a  heart  so  wliite. 


And  again, 


A  little  water  clears  us   of  this  deed, 
How  easy  is  it  then ! 


If  this  is  not  mere  masculine    indifference   to  blood  and    death,  mere 
firmness  of  nerve,  what  is  it  7 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTION. 

ALDA. 

Not  that,  at  least,  which  apparently  you  tleem  it ;  you  will  find, 
if  you  have  patience  to  read  me  to  the  end,  that  I  have  judged 
Lady  Macbeth  very  differently.  Take  these  frightful  passages  with 
the  context — take  the  whole  situation,  and  you  will  see  that  it  is  no 
such  thing.  A  friend  of  mine  truly  observed,  that  if  JNIacbeth  had 
been  a  ruffian  without  any  qualms  of  conscience,  Lady  Macbeth 
would  have  been  the  one  to  shrink  and  tremble ;  but  that  which 
quenched  him  lent  her  fire.  The  absolute  necessity  for  self-command, 
the  strength  of  her  reason,  and  her  love  for  her  husband,  combine  at 
this  critical  moment  to  conquer  all  fear  but  the  fear  of  detection, 
leaving  her  the  full  possession  of  her  faculties.  Recollect  that  the 
same  woman  who  speaks  with  such  horrible  indifference  of  a  little 
water  clearing  the  blood  stain  from  her  hand,  sees  in  imagination 
that  hand  for  ever  reeking,  for  ever  polluted :  and  when  reason  is  no 
longer  awake  and  paramount  over  the  violated  feelings  of  nature 
and  womanhood,  we  behold  her  making  unconscious  efforts  to  wash 
out  that  "  damned  spot,"  and  sighing,  heart-broken,  over  that  little 
hand  which  all  the  perfumes  of  Arabia  will  never  sweeten  more. 

WEDOX. 

I  hope  you  have  given  her  a  place  among  the  women  in  whom 
the  tender  affections  and  moral  sentiments  predominate. 

ALDA. 

You  laugh ;  but,  jesting  apart,  perhaps  it  would  have  been  a  more 
accurate  classification  than  placing  her  among  the  historical  characters. 

MEDOX. 

Apropos  to  the  historical  characters,  I  hope  you  have  refuted 
that  insolent  assumption  (shall  I  call  it  ?),  that  Shakspeare  tampered 
inexcusably  with  the  truth  of  history.  He  is  the  truest  of  all 
historians.  His  anachronisms  always  remind  me  of  those  in  the 
fme  old  Italian  pictures ;  either  they  are  insignificant,  or,  if  properly 
considered,  are  really  beauties ;  for  instance,  every  one  knows  that 
Correggio's   St.  Jerome    presenting  his  books   to  the  Virgin  involves 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxlx 

liall-a-clozen  anachronisms, — to  say  nothing  of  that  heavenly  figure 
of  the  Magdalen  in  the  same  picture  kissing  the  feet  of  the 
infant  Saviour.  Some  have  ridiculed,  some  have  excused  this  strange 
combination  of  inaccuracies ;  but  is  it  less  one  of  the  divinest 
pieces  of  sentiment  and  poetry  that  ever  breathed  and  glowed 
from  the  canvass  ?  You  remember  too  the  famous  Nativity  by 
some  Neapolitan  painter,  who  has  placed  Mount  Vesuvius  and  the 
Bay  of  Naples  in  the  back-ground  ?  In  these  and  a  hundred 
other  instances  no  one  seems  to  feel  that  the  apparent  absurdity 
involves  the  highest  truth,  and  that  the  sacred  beings  thus 
represented,  if  once  allowed  as  objects  of  faith  and  worship,  are 
eternal  under  every  aspect,  and  independent  of  all  time  and  all 
locality.  So  it  is  with  Shakspeare  and  his  anachronisms.  The 
learned  scorn  of  Johnson  and  some  of  his  brotherhood  of 
commentators,  and  the  eloquent  defence  of  Schlegel,  seem  in  this  case 
both  superfluous.  If  he  chose  to  make  the  Delphic  oracle  and  Julio 
Romano  contemporary — what  does  it  signify  1  he  committed  no 
anachronisms  of  character.  He  has  not  metamorphosed  Cleopatra 
into  a  turtle-dove,  nor  Katherine  of  Arragon  into  a  sentimental 
heroine  He  is  true  to  the  spirit  and  even  to  the  letter  of  history ; 
where  he  deviates  from  the  latter,  the  reason  may  be  found  in  some 
higher  beauty  and  more  universal  truth. 

ALDA. 

I  have  proved  this,  I  think,  by  placing  parallel  with  the  dramatic 
character  all  the  historic  testimony  I  could  collect  relative  to 
Constance,  Cleopatra,  Katherine  of  Arragon,  &c. 

MEDON. 

Analyzing  the  character  of  Cleopatra  must  have  been  something 
like  catching  a  meteor  by  the  tail,  and  making  it    sit  for  its  picture 


Something    like    it,  in    truth;   but    those    of  Miranda  and    Ophelia 
were  more  embarrassing,  because  they  seemed  to  defy  all  analysis.    It 


xl  I  N  T  II  U  D  U  C  T  I  O  N  . 

was  like  intercepting    the    dew-drop    or    the    snow-flake  ere  it  fell  to 
earth,  and  subjecting  it  to  a  chemical  process. 

MEDON. 

Some  one  said  the  other  day  that   Shakspeare    had   never  drawn  a 
coquette.     What  is  Cleopatra   but  the   empress   and   type    of    all  the 
coquettes    that    ever    were — or    are  ?      She    would    put  Lady 
herself  to  school.     But  now   for  the   moral. 

ALDA. 

The  moral ! — of    w^hat. 

MEDON. 

Of   your   book.     It  has   a  moral,  I  suppose. 

ALDA. 

It  has  indeed  a  very  deep  one,  which  those  who  seek  will  find. 
If  now^  I  have  answered  all  your  considerations  and  objections,  and 
sufficiently  explained  my  own   views,  may  I  proceed  ? 

^.lEDON. 

If    you  please — I  am  now  prepared   to   listen   in   earnest. 


CHARACTERS 


OF 


INTELLECT 


',F  i7^r/:-A 


PORTIA. 


We  hear  it  asserted,  not  seldom  by  way  of  compliment  to  us  women, 
that  intellect  is  of  no  sex.  If  this  mean  that  the  same  faculties  of  mind 
are  coromon  to  men  and  women,  it  is  true ;  in  any  other  signification 
it  appears  to  me  false,  and  the  reverse  of  a  compliment.  The  intellect 
of  woman  bears  the  same  relation  to  that  of  man  as  her  physical  organ- 
ization ; — it  is  inferior  in  power,  and  different  in  kind.  That  certain 
women  have  surpassed  certain  men  in  bodily  strength  or  intellectual 
energy,  does  not  contradict  the  general  principle  founded  in  nature.  The 
essential  and  invariable  distinction  appears  to  me  this:  in  men  the 
intellectual  faculties  exist  more  self-poised  and  self-directed — more 
independent  of  the  rest  of  the  character,  than  we  ever  find  them  in 
women,  with  whom  talent,  however  predominant,  is  in  a  much  greater 
degree  modified  by  the  sympathies  and  moral  qualities. 

In  thinkino;  over  all  the  distinguished  women  I  can  at  this  moment 
call  to  mind,  I  recollect  but  one,  who,  in  the  exercise  of  a  rare  talent, 
belied  her  sex,  but  the  moral  qualities  had  been  first  perverted.*  It  is 
from  not  knowing,  or  not  allowing,  this  general  principle,  that  men 
of  genius  have  committed  some  signal  mistakes.  They  have  given  us 
exquisite  and  just  delineations  of  the  more  peculiar  characteristics  of 
women,  as  modesty,  grace,  tenderness  ;  and  when  they  have  attempted 
to  portray  them  with  the  powers  common  to  both  sexes,  as  wit,  energy, 
intellect,  they  have  blundered  in  some  respect ;  they  could  form  no  con- 
ception of  intellect  which  was  not  masculine,  and  therefore  have  either 

•  Artemisia  Gentileschi,  an  Italian  artist  of  the  seventeenth  century,  painted  one  or 
two  pictures,  considered  admirable  as  works  of  art,  of  which  the  subjects  are  the  most 
vicious  and  barbarous  conceivable.  I  remember  one  of  these  in  the  gallery  of  Florence, 
which  I  looked  at  once,  but  once,  and  wished  then,  as  I  do  now,  for  the  ptivilege  of 
Durning  it  to  ashes. 

1 


2  PORTIA. 

suppressed  the  feminine  attributes  altogether  and  drawn  coarse  carica- 
tures, or  they  have  made  them  completely  artificial.*  Women  dis- 
tinguished for  wit  may  sometimes  appear  masculine  and  flippant,  but 
the  cause  must  be  sought  elsewhere  than  in  nature,  who  disclaims  all 
such.  Hence  the  witty  and  intellectual  ladies  of  our  comedies  and 
novels  ai'e  all  in  the  fashion  of  some  particular  time ;  they  are  like 
some  old  portraits  which  can  still  amuse  and  please  by  the  beauty  of 
the  workmanship,  in  spite  of  the  graceless  costmne  or  grotesque  accom- 
paniments, but  from  which  w'e  turn  to  w^orship  with  ever  new  delight  the 
Floras  and  goddesses  of  Titian — the  saints  and  the  virgins  of  Raffaelle  and 
Domenichino.  So  the  Millamants  and  Belindas,  the  Lady  Townleys  and 
Lady  Teazles  are  out  of  date,  while  Portia  and  Rosalind,  in  whom 
nature  and  the  feminine  character  are  paramount,  remain  bright  and 
fresh  to  the  fancy  as  when  first  created. 

Portia,  Isabella,  Beatrice,  and  Rosalind,  may  be  classed  together,  as 
characters  of  intellect,  because,  when  compared  with  others,  they  are  at 
once  distinguished  by  their  mental  superiority.  In  Portia  it  is  intellect, 
kindled  into  romance  by  a  poetical  imagination  ;  in  Isabel,  it  is  intellect 
elevated  by  religious  principle  ;  in  Beatrice,  intellect  animated  by  spirit ; 
in  Rosalind,  intellect  softened  by  sensibility.  The  wit  which  is  lavished 
on  each  is  profound,  or  pointed,  or  sparkling,  or  playful — but  always 
feminine  ;  like  spirits  distilled  from  flowers,  it  always  reminds  us  of 
its  origin ;  it  is  a  volatile  essence,  sweet  as  powerful ;  and  to  pursue 
the  comparison  a  step  further,  the  wit  of  Portia  is  like  attar  of  roses, 
rich  and  concentrated ;  that  of  Rosalind,  like  cotton  dipped  in  aromatic 
vinegar ;  the  wit  of  Beatrice  is  like  sal  volatile  ;  and  that  of  Isabel,  like 
the  incense  wafted  to  heaven.  Of  these  four  exquisite  characters,  con- 
sidered as  dramatic  and  poetical  conceptions,  it  is  difficult  to  pronounce 
which  is  most  perfect  in  its  way,  most  admirably  drawn,  most  highly 
finished.  But  if  considered  in  another  point  of  view,  as  women  and 
individuals,  as  breathing  realities,  clothed  in  flesh  and  blood,  I  believe 
we  must  assign  the  first  rank  to  Portia,  as  uniting  in  herself  in  a  more 


•  Lucy  Ashton,  in  the  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  may  be  placed  next  to  Desdemona  ; 
Diana  Vernon  is  (comparatively)  a  failure,  as  every  woman  will  allow;  while  the  mas- 
culine lady  Geraldine,  in  Miss  Edgeworth's  tale  of  Ennui,  and  the  intellectual  Corinne, 
are  consistent,  essential  women ;  the  distinction  is  more  easily  felt  than  analyzed. 


PORTIA  .  3 

eminent  degree  than  the  others,  all  the  noblest  and  most  loveable  qua- 
lities that  ever  met  together  in  %voraan  ;  and  presenting  a  complete 
personification  of  Petrarch's  exquisite  epitome  of  female  perfection  : 

II  vago  spirito  ardento, 
E'n  alto  intellcto.  un  puro  core. 

It  is  singular,  that  hitherto  no  critical  justice  has  been  done  to  the 
character  of  Portia ;  it  is  yet  more  wonderful,  that  one  of  the  finest 
writers  on  the  eternal  subject  of  Shakspeare  and  his  perfections,  should 
accuse  Portia  of  pedantry  and  affectation,  and  confess  she  is  not  a  great 
favorite  of  his — a  confession  quite  worthy  of  him,  who  avers  his  predi- 
lection for  servant-maids,  and  his  preference  of  the  Fannies  and  the 
Pamelas  over  the  Clementinas  and  Clarissas.*  Schlegel,  who  has  given 
several  pages  to  a  rapturous  eulogy  on  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  simply 
designates  Portia  as  a  "  rich,  beautiful,  clever  heiress  :" — whether  the 
fault  lie  in  the  writer  or  translator,  I  do  protest  against  the  word  clever.f 
Portia  clever!  what  an  epithet  to  apply  to  this  heavenly  compound  of 
talent,  feeling,  wisdom,  beauty,  and  gentleness!  Now  would  it  not  be  well, 
if  this  common  and  comprehensive  word  were  more  accurately  defined,  or 
at  least  more  accurately  used  1  It  signifies  properly,  not  so  much  the  pos- 
session of  high  powers,  as  dexterity  in  the  adaptation  of  certain  faculties 
(not  necessarily  of  a  high  order)  to  a  certain  end  or  aim — not  always  the 
worthiest.  It  implies  something  common-place,  inasmuch  as  it  speaks 
the  presence  of  the  active  and  perceptive,  with  a  deficiency  of  i\ie  feel- 
ing and  rejlective  powers :  and  applied  to  a  woman,  does  it  not  almost 
invariably  suggest  the  idea  of  something  we  should  distrust  or  shrink 
from,  if  not  allied  to  a  higher  nature  1  The  profligate  Frenchwomen, 
who  ruled  the  councils  of  Europe  in  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  were 
clever  women ;  and  that  philosophercss  Madame  du  Chatelet,  who  man- 
aged, at  one  and  the  same  moment,  the  thread  of  an  intrigue,  her  cards 
at  piquet,  and  a  calculation  in  algebra,  was  a  very  clever  woman !  If 
Portia  had  been  created  as  a  mere  instrument  to  bring  about  a  dramatic 
catastrophe — if  she  had  merely  detected  the  flaw  in  Antonio's  bond,  and 

*  Hazlitt's  Essays,  vol.  ii.,  p.  1G7. 

t  I  am  informed  that  the  original  German  word  is  geistreiche,  literally,  rich  in  sovi 
or  spirit,  a  just  and  beautiful  epithet.     Id  Edit. 


4  PORTIA. 

used  it  as  a  means  to  baffle  the  Jew,  she  might  have  been  pronounced  a 
clever  ■woman.  But  what  Portia  does,  is  forgotten  in  what  she  is.  The 
rare  and  harmonious  blending  of  energy,  reflection  and  feeling,  in  her 
fine  character,  make  the  epithet  clever  sound  like  a  discord  as  applied  to 
her,  and  place  her  infinitely  beyond  the  slight  praise  of  Richardson  and 
Schlcgel,  neither  of  whom  appears  to  have  fully  comprehended  her. 

These  and  other  critics  have  been  apparently  so  dazzled  and  engrossed 
by  the  amazing  character  of  Shylock,  that  Portia  has  received  less  than 
justice  at  their  hands ;  while  the  fact  is,  that  Shylock  is  not  a  finer  or  more 
finished  character  in  his  way,  than  Portia  is  in  hers.  These  two  splen- 
did figures  are  worthy  of  each  other ;  worthy  of  being  placed  together 
'within  the  same  rich  framework  of  enchanting  poetry,  and  glorious  and 
graceful  forms.  She  hangs  beside  the  terrible,  inexorable  Jew,  the  bril- 
liant lights  of  her  character  set  off  by  the  shadowy  power  of  his,  like  a 
magnificent  beautj^-breathing  Titian  by  the  side  of  a  gorgeous  Rem- 
brandt. 

Portia  is  endued  with  her  o^^"n  share  of  those  delightful  qualities, 
which  Shakspeare  has  lavished  on  many  of  his  female  characters ;  but 
besides  the  dignity,  the  sweetness,' and  tenderness  which  should  distinguish 
^.^•.•  r;cx  generally,  she  is  individualized  by  qualities  peculiar  to  herself; 
by  her  high  mental  powers,  her  enthusiasm  of  temperament,  her  decision 
of  purpose,  and  her  buoyancy  of  spirit.  These  are  innate  ;  she  has  other 
distinguishing  qualities  more  external,  and  which  are  the  result  of  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  she  is  placed.  Thus  she  is  the  heiress  of  a  princely 
name  and  countless  wealth ;  a  train  of  obedient  pleasures  have  ever 
waited  round  her ;  and  from  infancy  she  has  breathed  an  atmosphere 
redolent  of  perfume  and  blandishment.  Accordingly  there  is  a  command- 
ing grace,  a  high-bred,  airy  elegance,  a  spirit  of  magnificence  in  all  that 
she  does  and  says,  as  one  to  whom  splendor  had  been  familiar  from  her 
very  birth.  She  treads  as  though  her  footsteps  had  been  among  marble 
palaces,  beneath  roofs  of  fretted  gold,  o'er  cedar  floors  and  pavements  of 
jasper  and  porphyry — amid  gardens  full  of  statues,  and  flowers,  and  foun- 
tains, and  haunting  music.  She  is  full  of  penetrative  wisdom,  and 
genuine  tenderness,  and  lively  wit ;  but  as  she  has  never  known  want,  or 
grief,  or  fear,  or  disappointment,  her  wisdom  is  witliout  a  touch  of  the 
sombre  or  the  sad  ;  her  aflfections  are  all  mixed  up  with  faith,  hope  and 
joy ;  and  her  wit  has  not  a  particle  of  malevolence  or  causticity. 


PORTIA.  5 

It  is  well  known  that  the  Merchant  of  Venice  is  founded  on  two  differ- 
ent tales;  and  in  weaving  together  his  double  plot  in  so  masterly  a  man- 
ner, Shakspeare  has  rejected  altogether  the  character  of  the  astutious  lady 
of  Belmont  with  her  magic  potions,  who  figures  in  the  Italian  novel. 
With  yet  more  refinement,  he  has  thrown  out  all  the  licentious  part  of 
the  story,  which  some  of  his  contemporary  dramatists  would  have  seized 
on  with  avidity,  and  made  the  best  or  the  worst  of  it  possible;  and  he  has 
substituted  the  trial  of  the  caskets  from  another  source.*  We  are  not  told 
expressly  where  Belmont  is  situated ;  but  as  Bassanio  takes  ship  to  go 
thither  from  Venice,  and  as  we  find  them  afterwards  ordering  horses  from 
Belmont  to  Padua,  we  will  imagine  Portia's  hereditary  palace  as  standing 
on  some  lovely  promontory  between  Venice  and  Trieste,  overlooking  the 
blue  Adriatic,  with  the  Friuli  mountains  or  the  Euganean  hills  for  its 
background,  such  as  we  often  see  in  one  of  Claude's  or  Poussin's  elysian 
landscapes.  In  a  scene,  in  a  home  like  this,  Shakspeare,  having  first 
exorcised  the  original  possessor,  has  placed  his  Portia :  and  so  endowed 
her,  that  all  the  wild,  strange,  and  moving  circumstances  of  the  story, 
become  natural,  probable,  and  necessary  in  connection  with  her.  That 
such  a  woman  should  be  chosen  by  the  solving  of  an  enigma,  is  not  sur- 
prising :  herself  and  all  around  her,  the  scene,  the  country,  the  age  in 
which  she  is  placed,  breathe  of  poetry,  romance  and  enchantment. 

From  the  four  quarters  of  the  earth  they  come 

To  kiss  this  shrine,  this  mortal  breathing  saint. 

The  Hyrcanian  desert,  and  the  vasty  wilds 

Of  wild  Arabia,  are  as  thoroughfares  now, 

For  princes  to  come  view  fair  Portia ; 

The  watery  kingdom,  whose  ambitious  head 

Spits  in  the  face  of  heaven  is  no  bar 

To  stop  the  foreign  spirits  ;  but  they  come 

As  o'er  a  brook  to  see  fair  Portia. 

The  sudden  plan  which  she  forms  for  the  release  of  her  husband's 
friend,  her  disguise,  and  her  deportment  as  the  young  and  learned  doctor, 
would  appear  forced  and  improbable  in  any  other  woman ;  but  in  Portia 

•  In  the  "  Mercatante  di  Venezia  "  of  Ser.  Giovanni,  we  have  the  whole  story  of  An- 
tonio and  Bassanio,  and  part  of  the  story,  but  not  the  character,  of  Portia.     The  inci 
dent  of  the  caskets  is  from  the  Gesta  Romanorum. 


6  PORTIA. 

are  the  simple  and  natui-al  result  of  her  character.*  The  quickness  with 
which  she  perceives  the  legal  advantage  which  may  be  taken  of  the  cir- 
cumstances ;  the  spirit  of  adventure  with  which  she  engages  in  the  mas- 
querading, and  the  decision,  firmness,  and  intelligence  with  which  she 
executes  her  generous  purpose,  are  all  in  perfect  keeping,  and  nothing 
appears  forced — nothing  as  introduced  merely  for  theatrical  effect. 

But  all  the  finest  parts  of  Portia's  character  are  brought  to  bear  in  the 
trial  scene.  There  she  shines  forth  all  her  divine  self.  Her  intellectual 
powers,  her  elevated  sense  of  religion,  her  .high  honorable  principles, 
her  best  feelings  as  a  woman,  are  all  displayed.  She  maintains  at  first  a 
calm  self-command,  as  one  sure  of  carrying  her  point  in  the  end  ;  yet  the 
painful  heart-thrilling  uncertainty  in  which  she  keeps  the  whole  court, 
until  suspense  verges  iipon  agony,  is  not  contrived  for  effect  merely  ;  it  is 
necessary  and  inevitable.  She  has  two  objects  in  view ;  to  deliver  her 
husband's  friend,  and  to  maintain  her  husband's  honor  by  the  discharge 
of  his  just  debt,  though  paid  out  of  her  own  wealth  ten  times  over.  It  is 
evident  that  she  w^ould  rather  owe  the  safety  of  Antonio  to  anything 
rather  than  the  legal  quibble  with  wdiich  her  cousin  Bellario  has  armed 
her,  and  which  she  reserves  as  a  last  resource.  Thus  all  the  speeches 
addressed  to  Shylock  in  the  first  instance,  are  either  direct  or  indirect 
experiments  on  his  temper  and  feelings.  She  must  be  understood  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end,  as  examining  with  intense  anxiety  the  effect 
of  her  own  words  on  his  mind  and  countenance  ;  as  watching  for  that 
relenting  spirit,  which  she  hopes  to  awaken  either  by  reason  or  persua- 
sion. She  begins  by  an  appeal  to  his  mercy,  in  that  matchless  piece  of 
eloquence,  which,  with  an  irresistible  and  solemn  pathos,  falls  upon  the 
heart  like  "  gentle  dew  from  heaven  :  " — but  in  vain  ;  for  that  blessed 
dew  drops  not  more  fruitless  and  unfelt  on  the  parched  sand  of  the  desert, 
than  do  these  heavenly  words  upon  the  ear  of  Shylock.  She  next  attacks 
his  avarice : 

Shylock,  there's  thrice  tliy  money  offered  thee  ! 

•  In  that  age,  delicate  points  of  law  were  not  determined  by  the  ordinary  judges  of  the 
provinces,  but  by  doctors  of  law,  who  were  called  from  Bologna,  Padua,  and  other 
places  celebrated  for  their  legal  colleges. 


PORTIA  .  7 

Then  she  appeals,  in  the  same  breath,  both  to  his  avarice  and  his  pity  : 

Be  merciful ! 
Take  thrice  thy  money.    Bid  me  tear  the  bond. 

All  that  she  says  afterwards — her  strong  expressions,  which  are  calculated 
to  strike  a  shuddering  horror  through  the  nerves — the  reflections  she 
interposes — her  delays  and  circumlocution  to  give  time  for  any  latent 
feeling  of  commiseration  to  display  itself — all,  all  are  premeditated  and 
tend  in  the  same  manner  to  the  object  she  has  in  view.     Thus — 

You  must  prepare  your  bosom  for  his  knife. 
Therefore  lay  bear  your  bosom  ! 

These  two  speeches,  though  addressed  apparently  to  Antonio,  are 
spoken  at  Shylock,  and  are  evidently  intended  to  penetrate  his  bosom. 
In  the  same  spirit  she  asks  for  the  balance  to  weigh  the  pound  of  flesh  ; 
and  entreats  of  Shylock  to  have  a  surgeon  ready — 

Have  by  some  surgeon,  Shylock,  on  your  charge, 
To  stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  do  bleed  to  death  ! 

SHYLOCK. 

Is  it  so  nominated  in  the  bond  ? 


It  is  not  so  expressed — but  what  of  that  ? 
'T  were  good  you  do  so  much,  for  cliarily. 

So  unwilling  is  her  sanguine  and  generous  spirit  to  resign  all  hope,  or 
to  believe  that  humanity  is  absolutely  extinct  in  the  bosom  of  the  Jew, 
that  she  calls  on  Antonio,  as  a  last  resource,  to  speak  for  himself.  His 
gentle,  yet  manly  resignation — the  deep  pathos  of  his  farew^ell,  and  the 
affectionate  allusion  to  herself  in  his  last  address  to  Bassanio — 

Commend  me  to  your  honorable  wife  ; 

Say  how  I  lov'd  you,  speak  me  fair  in  death,  &c. 


8  PORTIA. 

are  yveW  calculated  to  swell  that  emotion,  which  tlirough  the  \\hole  scene 
must  have  been  laboring  suppressed  within  her  heart. 

At  length  the  crisis  arrives,  for  patience  and  womanhood  can  endure 
no  longer  ;  and  when  Shylock,  carrying  his  savage  bent  "  to  the  last  hour 
of  act,"  springs  on  his  victim — "  A  sentence  !  come,  prepare!  "  then  the 
smothered  scorn,  indignation,  and  disgust,  burst  forth  with  an  impetuo- 
sity which  interferes  with  the  judicial  solemnity  she  had  at  first  affected , 
-particularly  in  the  speech — 

Therefore,  prepare  thee  to  cut  off  the  flesh. 

Shed  thou  no  blood  ;  nor  cut  thou  less,  nor  more, 

But  just  the  pound  of  flesh  ;  if  thou  tak'st  more. 

Or  less  than  a  just  pound, — be  it  but  so  much 

As  makes  it  light,  or  heavy,  in  the  substance. 

Or  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 

Of  one  poor  scruple ;  nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 

But  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair, — 

Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 

But  she  afterwards  recovers  her  propriety,  and  triumphs  with  a  cooler 
scorn  and  a  more  self-possessed  exultation. 

It  is  clear  that,  to  feel  the  full  force  and  dramatic  beauty  of  this  mar- 
vellous scene,  we  must  go  along  with  Portia  as  well  as  with  Shylock  ;  we 
must  understand  her  concealed  purpose,  keep  in  mind  her  noble  motives, 
and  pursue  in  our  fancy  the  under  current  of  feeling,  working  in  her 
mind  throughout.  The  terror  and  the  power  of  Shylock's  character, — his 
deadly  and  inexorable  malice, — would  be  too  oppressive ;  the  pain  and 
pity  too  intolerable,  and  the  horror  of  the  possible  issue  too  overwhelm- 
ing, but  for  the  intellectual  relief  afforded  by  this  double  source  of  interest 
and  contemplation. 

I  come  now  to  that  capacity  for  warm  and  generous  affection,  that  ten- 
derness of  heart,  which  render  Portia  not  less  loveable  as  a  woman,  than 
admirable  for  her  mental  endowments.  The  affections  are  to  the  intellect, 
what  the  forge  is  to  the  metal ;  it  is  they  which  temper  and  shape  it  to  all 
good  purposes,  and  soften,  strengthen,  and  purify  it.  What  an  exqui- 
site stroke  of  judgment  in  the  poet,  to  make  the  mutual  passion  of  Portia 
and  Bassanio,  though  unacknowledged  to  each  other,  anterior  to  the 
opening  of  the  play  !     Bassanio's  confession  very  properly  comes  first : — 


PORTIA. 


EASSANIO. 


In  Belmont  is  a  lady  richly  left, 
And  she  is  fair,  and  fairer  than  tha*  word, 
Of  wond'rous  virtues  ;  sometimes  from  her  eyes 
I  did  receive  fair  speechless  messages  ; 
******** 

and  prepares  us  for  Portia's  half  betrayed,  unconscious  election  of  this 
most  graceful  and  chivalrous  admirer — 


Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  your  father's  time,  a  Venetian,  a  scholar,  and  a 
soldier,  that  came  hither  in  company  of  the  Marquis  of  Montferrat  ? 

rORTIA. 

Yes,  yes,  it  was  Bassanio  ;  as  I  think,  so  he  was  called. 

NERISSA. 

True,  madam ;  he  of  all  the  men  that  ever  my  foolish  eyes  looked  upon,  was  the 
best  deserving  a  fair  lady. 

PORTIA. 

I  remember  him  well ;  and  I  remember  him  worthy  of  thy  praise. 

Our  interest  is  thus  awakened  for  the  lovers  from  the  very  first ;  and 
what  shall  be  said  of  the  casket  scene  with  Bassanio,  where  every  line 
which  Portia  speaics  is  so  worthy  of  herself,  so  full  of  sentiment  and 
beauty,  and  poetry  and  passion  1  Too  naturally  frank  for  disguise,  too 
modest  to  confess  her  depth  of  love  while  the  issue  of  the  trial  remains  in 
suspense,  the  conflict  between  love  and  fear,  and  maidenly  dignity,  cause 
the  most  delicious  confusion  that  ever  tinged  a  woman's  cheek,  or  chopped 
in  broken  utterance  from  her  lips. 

I  pray  you,  tarry,  pause  a  day  or  two, 
Before  you  hazard  ;  for  in  choosing  wronj:f, 
I  lose  your  company ;  therefore,  forbear  a  while  } 
There's  something  tells  me  (but  it  is  not  love) 
I  would  not  lose  you ;  and  you  know  yourself, 


10  PORTIA. 

Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality  : 
But  lest  you  should  not  understand  me  weii 
(And  yet  a  maiden  hath  no  tongue  but  thought), 
1  would  detain  you  here  some  month  or  two 
Before  you  venture  for  me.     1  could  teach  you 
How  to  choose  right, — but  then  I  am  forsworn  :— 
So  will  I  never  be  :  so  you  may  miss  me ; — 
But  if  you  do,  you'll  make  me  wish  a  sin, 
That  I  had  been  forsworn.     Beshrew  your  eyes, 
They  have  o'erlooked  me,  and  divided  me  ; 
One  half  of  me  is  yours,  the  other  half  yours, — 
Mine  own,  I  would  say ;  but  if  mine,  then  3'ours, — 
And  so  all  yours  ! 

The  short  dialogue  betv\'een  the  lovers  is  exquisite. 


Let  me  choose ; 
For,  as  I  am,  I  live  upon  the  rack. 


Upon  the  rack,  Bassanio  ?    Then  confess 
What  treason  there  is  mingled  with  your  love. 


None,  but  that  ugly  treason  of  mistrust, 
Which  makes  me  fear  the  enjoying  of  my  love 
There  may  as  well  be  amity  and  life 
'Tween  snow  and  fire,  as  treason  and  my  love. 


Ay  .'  but  I  fear  you  speak  upon  the  rack, 
Where  men  enforced  do  speak  anything. 

BASSANIO. 

Promise  mo  life,  and  I'll  confess  the  Irulh. 

PORTIA. 

Well  then,  confess,  and  liva 


PORTIA  .  11 


Confess  and  love 
Had  been  the  very  sum  of  my  confession  ! 
O  happy  torment,  wlien  my  torturer 
Doth  teach  me  answers  for  deliverance ! 


A  prominent  feature  in  Portia's  character  is  that  confiding,  buoyant 
spirit,  which  mingles  with  all  her  thoughts  and  affections.  And  here  let 
me  observe,  that  I  never  yet  met  in  real  life,  nor  ever  read  in  tale  or 
history,  of  any  woman,  distinguished  for  intellect  of  the  highest  order, 
who  was  not  also  remarkable  for  this  trusting  spirit,  this  hopefulness  and 
cheerfulness  of  temper,  which  is  compatible  with  the  most  serious  habits  of 
thought,  and  the  most  profound  sensibility.  Lady  Wortley  Montagu  was 
one  instance ;  Madame  de  Stael  furnishes  another  much  more  memorable. 
In  her  Corinne,  whom  she  drew  from  herself,  this  natural  brightness  of 
temper  is  a  prominent  part  of  the  character.  A  disposition  to  doubt,  to 
suspect,  and  to  despond,  in  the  young,  argues,  in  general,  some  inherent 
weakness,  moral  or  physical,  or  some  miserable  and  radical  error  of 
education ;  in  the  old,  it  is  one  of  the  first  symptoms  of  age  ;  it  speaks  of 
the  influence  of  sorrow  and  experience,  and  foreshows  the  decay  of  the 
stronger  and  more  generous  powers  of  the  soul.  Portia's  strength  of 
intellect  takes  a  natural  tinge  from  the  flush  and  bloom  of  her  young 
and  prosperous  existence,  and  from  her  fervent  imagination.  In  the 
casket-scene,  she  fears  indeed  the  issue  of  the  trial,  on  which  more  than 
her  life  is  hazarded ;  but  while  she  trembles,  her  hope  is  stronger  than 
her  fear.  While  Bassanio  is  contemplating  the  caskets,  she  suffers 
herself  to  dwell  for  one  moment  on  the  possibility  of  disappointment 
and  misery. 

Let  music  sound  while  he  doth  make  his  choice  ; 
Then  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a  swan-like  end, 
Fading  in  music  :  that  the  comparison 
May  stand  more  proper,  my  eye  shall  be  the  stream 
And  watery  death-bed  for  him. 

Then  immediately  follows  that  revulsion  of  feeling,  so  beautifully 
characteristic  of  the  hopeful,  trusting,  mounting  spirit  of  this  noble 
creature. 


12  PORTIA. 

But  he  may  win  ! 

And  what  is  music  then  ? — then  music  is 
Even  as  the  flourish,  wlien  true  subjects  bow 
To  a  new-crowned  monarcli :  such  it  is 
As  are  those  dulcet  sounds  at  break  of  day 
That  creep  into  tlie  dreaming  bridegroom's  ear, 
And  summon  liim  to  marriage.     Now  he  goes 
With  no  less  presence,  but  with  much  more  Ijve 
Than  young  Alcides,  w  hen  he  did  redeem 
The  virgin  tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 
To  the  sea  monster.     I  stand  here  for  sacrifice. 

Here,  not  only  the  feeling  itself,  born  of  the  elastic  and  sanguine  spirit 
which  had  never  been  touched  by  grief,  but  the  images  in  which  it  conies 
arrayed  to  her  fancy, — the  bridegroom  waked  by  music  on  his  wedding 
morn,— the  new-crowned  monarch, — the  comparison  of  Bassanio  to  the 
young  Alcides,  and  of  herself  to  the  daughter  of  Laomedon, — are  all 
precisely  what  would  have  suggested  themselves  to  the  fine  poetical 
iraao-ination  of  Portia  in  such  a  moment. 

Her  passionate  exclamations  of  delight,  when  Bassanio  has  fixed  on 
the  right  casket,  are  as  strong  as  though  she  had  despaired  before.  Fear 
and  doubt  she  could  repel ;  the  native  elasticity  of  her  mind  bore  up 
against  them  ;  yet  she  makes  us  feel,  that,  as  the  sudden  joy  overpowers 
her  almost  to  fainting,  the  disappointment  would  as  certainly  have  killed 
her. 

How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air, 

As  doubtful  thouglits,  and  rash-embraced  despair, 

And  shudd'ring  fear,  and  green-eyed  jealousy  ? 

0  love  !  be  moderate,  allay  thy  ecstasy  j 

In  measure  rain  thy  joy,  scant  this  excess ; 

1  feel  too  much  thy  blessing  ;  make  it  less, 
For  fear  I  surfeit ! 

Her  subsequent  sunender  of  herself  in  heart  and  soul,  of  her  maiden 
freedom,  and  her  vast  possessions,  can  never  be  read  without  deep 
emotions;  for  not  only  all  the  tenderness  and  delicacy  of  a  devoted 
woman,  are  here  blended  with  all  the  dignity  w^hich  becomes  the  princely 
heiress   of  Belmont,  but  the  serious,   measured   self-possession  of  her 


PORTIA  ,  13 

address  to  her  lover,  when  all  suspense  is  over,  and  all  concealment 
superfluous,  is  most  beautifully  consistent  with  the  character.  It  is,  in 
truth,  an  awful  moment,  that  in  which  a  gifted  woman  first  discovers, 
that  besides  talents  and  powers,  she  has  also  passions  and  affections ; 
when  she  first  begins  to  suspect  their  vast  importance  in  the  sum  of  her 
existence  ;  when  she  first  confesses  that  her  happiness  is  no  longer  in  her 
own  keeping,  but  is  surrendered  for  ever  and  for  ever  into  the  dominion 
of  another!  The  possession  of  uncommon  powers  of  mind  are  so  far 
from  affording  relief  or  resource  in  the  first  intoxicating  surprise — I  had 
almost  said  terror — of  such  a  revolution,  that  they  render  it  more 
intense.  The  sources  of  thought  multiply  beyond  calculation  the  sources 
of  feeling ;  and  mingled,  they  rush  together,  a  torrent  deep  as  strong. 
Because  Portia  is  endued  with  that  enlarged  comprehension  which  looks 
before  and  after,  she  does  not  feel  the  less,  but  the  more  :  because  from 
the  height  of  her  commanding  intellect  she  can  contemplate  the  force, 
the  tendency,  the  consequences  of  her  own  sentiments — because  she  is 
fully  sensible  of  her  own  situation,  and  the  value  of  all  she  concedes — 
the  concession  is  not  made  with  less  entireness  and  devotion  of  heart, 
less  confidence  in  the  truth  and  worth  of  her  lover,  than  when  Juliet,  in 
a  similar  moment,  but  without  any  such  intrusive  reflections — any  check 
but  the  instinctive  delicacy  of  her  sex,  flings  herself  and  her  fortunes  at 
the  feet  of  her  lover  : 

And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  foot  I'll  lay, 

And  follow  thee,  my  lord,  through  all  the  world.* 

In  Portia's  confession,  which  is  not  breathed  from  a  moonlit  balcony, 
but  spoken  only  in  the  presence  of  her  attendants  and  vassals,  there  is 
nothing  of  the  passionate  self-abandonment  of  Juliet,  nor  of  the  artless 
simplicity  of  Miranda,  but  a  consciousness  and  a  tender  seriousness, 
approachmg  to  solemnity,  which  are  not  less  touching. 

Yon  see  me,  Lord  Bassanio,  where  I  stand 
Such  as  I  am  :  though  for  myself  alone, 
I  would  not  be  ambitious  in  my  wish, 

•  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Act  ii.  Scene  y. 


14  PORTIA. 

To  wish  myself  much  better  ;  yet,  for  you, 

I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself; 

A  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  times 

More  rich ;  that  only  to  stand  high  in  your  account, 

1  might  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends. 

Exceed  account ;  but  the  full  sum  of  me 

Is  sum  of  something  ;  which  to  term  in  gross. 

Is  an  unlesson'd  girl,  unschool'd,  unpractis'd, 

Happy  in  this,  she  is  not  yet  so  old 

But  she  may  learn,  and  happier  than  this, 

She  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn  ; 

Happiest  of  all  is,  that  her  gentle  spirit 

Commits  itself  to  yours  to  be  directed, 

As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 

Myself,  and  what  is  mine,  to  you  and  yours 

Is  now  converted.     But  now  I  was  the  lord 

Of  this  fair  mansion,  master  of  my  servants. 

Queen  o'er  myself;  and  even  now,  but  now, 

This  house,  these  servants,  and  this  same  myself, 

Are  yours,  my  lord. 

We  must  also  remark  that  the  sweetness,  the  solicitude,  the  subdued 
fondness  which  she  afterwards  displays,  relative  to  the  letter,  are  as  true 
to  the  softness  of  her  sex,  as  the  generous  self-denial  with  which  she 
urges  the  departure  of  Bassanio  (having  first  given  him  a  husband's  right 
over  herself  and  all  her  countless  wealth)  is  consistent  with  a  reflecting 
mind,  and  a  spirit  at  once  tender,  reasonable,  and  magnanimous. 

It  is  not  only  in  the  trial  scene,  that  Portia's  acuteness,  eloquence,  and 
lively  intelligence  are  revealed  to  us;  they  are  displayed  in  the  fii'st 
instance,  and  kept  up  consistently  to  the  end.  Her  reflections,  arising 
from  the  most  usual  aspects  of  nature,  and  from  the  commonest  incidents 
of  life,  are  in  such  a  poetical  spirit,  and  are  at  the  same  time  so  pointed, 
so  profound,  that  they  have  passed  into  familiar  and  daily  application, 
with  all  the  force  of  proverbs. 

If  to  do,  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were  good  to  do,  chapels  had  been 
churches,  and  poor  men's  cottages  princes'  palaces. 

I  can  easier  teach  twenty  what  were  good  to  be  done,  than  be  one  of  the  twenty 
to  follow  mine  own  teaching;. 


PORTIA.  15 

The  crow  doth  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  lark, 
When  neither  is  attended ;  and  I  think 
The  nightingale,  if  she  should  sing  by  day, 
When  every  goose  is  cackling,  would  be  thought 
No  better  a  musician  than  the  wren. 
How  many  things  by  season,  seasoned  are 
To  their  right  praise  and  true  perfection  ! 

How  far  that  little  candle  throws  his  beams  ! 
So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world, 
A  substitute  shines  as  brightly  as  a  king, 
Until  a  king  be  by  ;  and  then  his  state 
Empties  itself,  as  doth  an  inland  brook. 
Into  the  main  of  waters. 

Her  reflections  on  the  friendship  between  her  husband  and  Antonio  Eire 
as  full  of  deep  meaning  as  of  tenderness  j  and  her  portrait  of  a  young 
coxcomb,  in  the  same  scene,  is  touched  with  a  truth  and  spirit  which 
show  with  what  a  keen  observing  eye  she  has  looked  upon  men  and 
things. 

I'll  hold  thee  any  wager, 

Wlien  we  are  both  accoutred  like  young  men, 

I'll  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two. 

And  wear  my  dagger  with  a  braver  grace ; 

And  speak  between  the  change  of  man  and  boy 

With  a  reed  voice  ;  and  turn  two  mincing  steps 

Into  a  manly  stride ;  and  speak  of  frays 

Like  a  fine  bragging  youth  ;  and  tell  quaint  lies — 

How  honorable  ladies  sought  my  love. 

Which  I  denying,  they  fell  sick  and  died  ; 

I  could  not  do  with  all :  then  I'll  repent. 

And  wish,  for  all  that,  that  I  had  not  killed  them ; 

And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I'll  tell 

That  men  shall  swear  I  have  discontinued  school 

Above  a  twelvemonth  ! 

And  in  the  description  of  her  various  suitors,  in  the  first  scene  with 
Nerissa,  what  infinite  power,  wit,  and  vivacity !  She  half  checks  herself 
as  she  is  about  to  give  the  reins  to  her  sportive  humor :  "  In  truth,  I 
know  it  is  a  sin  to  be  a  mocker." — But  if  it  carries  her  away,  it  is  so  per- 


16  PORTIA. 

fectly  good-natured,  so  temperately  bright,  so  ladylike,  it  is  ever  without 
offence ;  and  so  far,  most  unlike  the  satirical,  poignant,  unsparing  wit 
of  Beatrice,  "misprising  what  she  looks  on."  In  fact,  I  can  scarce 
conceive  a  greater  contrast  than  between  the  vivacity  of  Portia  and 
the  vivacity  of  Beatrice.  Portia,  with  all  her  airy  brilliance,  is  supremely 
soft  and  dignified ;  everything  she  says  or  does,  displays  her  capability 
for  profound  thought  and  feeling,  as  well  as  her  lively  and  romantic 
disposition;  and  as  I  have  seen  in  an  Italian  garden  a  fountain  flinging 
round  its  wTeaths  of  showery  light,  while  the  many-colored  Iris  hung 
brooding  above  it,  in  its  calm  and  soul-felt  glory  ;  so  in  Portia  the  wit  is 
ever  kept  subordinate  to  the  poetry,  and  we  still  feel  the  tender,  the  intel  - 
lectual,  and  the  imaginative  part  of  the  character,  as  superior  to,  and 
presiding  over,  its  spirit  and  vivacity. 

Li  the  last  act,  Shylock  and  his  machinations  being  dismissed  from  our 
thoughts,  and  the  rest  of  the  dramatis  personcB  assembled  together  at 
Belmont,  all  our  interest  and  all  our  attention  are  riveted  on  Portia,  and 
the  conclusion  leaves  the  most  delighful  impression  on  the  fancy.  The 
playful  equivoque  of  the  rings,  the  sportive  trick  she  puts  on  her  husband, 
and  her  thorough  enjoyment  of  the  jest,  which  she  checks  just  as  it  is 
proceeding  beyond  the  bounds  of  propriety,  show  how  little  she  was 
displeased  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  gift,  and  are  all  consistent  with  her 
bright  and  buoyant  spirit.  In  conclusion,  when  Portia  invites  her 
company  to  enter  her  palace  to  refresh  themselves  after  their  travels, 
and  talk  over  "  these  events  at  full,"  the  imagination,  unwilling  to 
lose  sight  of  the  brilliant  group,  follows  them  in  gay  procession  from 
the  lovely  moonlight  garden  to  marble  halls  and  princely  revels,  to 
splendor  and  festive  mirth,  to  love  and  happiness. 

I\Iany  women  have  possessed  many  of  those  qualities  which  render 
Portia  so  delightful.  She  is  in  herself  a  piece  of  reality,  in  whose  pos- 
sible existence  we  have  no  doubt :  and  yet  a  human  being,  in  whom  the 
moral,  intellectual  and  sentient  faculties  should  be  so  exquisitely  blended 
and  proportioned  to  each  other ;  and  these  again,  in  harmony  vs-ith  all 
out\vard  aspects  and  influences,  probably  never  existed — certainly  could 
not  now  exist.  A  woman  constituted  like  Portia,  and  placed  in  this  age, 
and  in  the  actual  state  of  society,  would  find  society  armed  against  her  ; 
and  instead  of  being  like  Portia,  a  gracious,  happy,  beloved,  and  loving 
creature,  would  be  a  victim,  immolated  in  fire  to  that  multitudinous 


FOR  T  I  A  .  17 

Moloch  termed  Opinion.  With  her  the  world  without  would  be  at  war 
with  the  world  within ;  in  the  perpetual  strife,  either  her  nature  would 
"  be  subdued  to  the  element  it  worked  in,"  and  bending  to  a  necessity  it 
could  neither  escape  nor  approve,  lose  at  last  something  of  its  original 
brightness  ;  or  otherwise — a  perpetual  spirit  of  resistance,  cherished  as  a 
safeguard,  might  perhaps  in  the  end  destroy  the  equipoise;  firmness 
would  become  pride  and  self-assurance ;  and  the  soft,  sweet,  feminine 
texture  of  the  mind,  settle  into  rigidity.  Is  there  then  no  sanctuary  for 
such  a  mind  ? — Where  shall  it  find  a  refuge  from  the  world  ? — Where 
seek  for  strength  against  itself '?     Where,  but  in  heaven  ? 

Camiola,  in  Massinger's  Maid  of  Honor,  is  said  to  emulate  Portia  , 
and  the  real  story  of  Camiola  (for  she  is  an  historical  personage)  is  very 
beautiful.  She  was  a  lady  of  Messina,  who  lived  in  the  beginning  of 
the  fourteenth  century ;  and  was  the  cotemporary  of  Queen  Joanna, 
of  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio.  It  fell  out  in  those  days,  that  Prince 
Orlando  of  Arragon,  the  younger  brother  of  the  King  of  Sicily,  having 
taken  the  command  of  a  naval  armament  against  the  Neapolitans,  was 
defeated,  wounded,  taken  prisoner,  and  confined  by  Robert  of  Naples 
(the  father  of  Queen  Joanna)  in  one  of  his  strongest  castles.  As  the 
prince  had  distinguished  himself  by  his  enmity  to  the  Neapolitans,  and 
by  many  exploits  against  them,  his  ransom  was  fixed  at  an  exorbitant 
sum,  and  his  captivity  was  unusually  severe  ;  while  the  King  of  Sicily, 
who  had  some  cause  of  displeasure  against  his  brother,  and  imputed  to 
him  the  defeat  of  his  armament,  refused  either  to  negotiate  for  his 
release,  or  to  pay  the  ransom  demanded. 

Orlando,  who  was  celebrated  for  his  fine  person  and  reckless  valor, 
was  apparently  doomed  to  languish  away  the  rest  of  his  life  in  a 
dungeon,  when  Camiola  Turinga,  a  rich  Sicilian  heiress,  devoted  the 
half  of  her  fortune  to  release  him.  But  as  such  an  action  might  expose 
her  to  evil  comments,  she  made  it  a  condition,  that  Orlando  should  marry 
her.  The  prince  gladly  accepted  the  terms,  and  sent  her  the  contract 
of  marriage,  signed  by  his  hand;  but  no  sooner  was  he  at  liberty,  than 
he  refused  to  fulfd  it,  and  even  denied  all  knowledge  of  his  benefactress. 

Camiola  appealed  to  the  tribunal  of  state,  produced  the  written 
contract,  and  described  the  obligations  she  had  heaped  on  this  ungrateful 
and  ungenerous  man;  sentence  was  given  against  him,  and  he  was 
adjudged  to  Camiola,  not  only  as  her  rightful  husband,  but  as  a  property 

3 


18  PORTIA. 

which,  according  to  the  laws  of  war  in  that  age,  she  had  purchased  with 
her  gold.  The  day  of  marriage  was  fixed  ;  Orlando  presented  himself 
with  a  splendid  retinue  ;  Camiola  also  appeared,  decorated  as  for  her 
bridal ;  but  instead  of  bestowing  her  hand  on  the  recreant,  she 
reproached  him  in  the  presence  of  all  with  his  breach  of  faith,  declared 
her  utter  contempt  for  his  baseness ;  and  then  freely  bestowing  on  him 
the  sum  paid  for  his  ransom,  as  a  gift  worthy  of  his  mean  soul,  she 
turned  away,  and  dedicated  herself  and  her  heart  to  heaven.  In  this 
resolution  she  remained  inflexible,  though  the  king  and  all  the  court 
united  in  entreaties  to  soften  her.  She  took  the  veil ;  and  Orlando, 
henceforth  regarded  as  one  who  had  stained  his  knighthood,  and  violated 
his  faith,  passed  the  rest  of  his  life  as  a  dishonored  man,  and  died  in 
obscurity. 

Camiola,  in  "  The  Maid  of  Honor,"  is,  like  Portia,  a  wealthy  heiress, 
surrounded  by  suitors,  and  "  queen  o'er  herself : "  the  character  is 
constructed  upon  the  same  principles,  as  great  intellectual  power, 
magnanimity  of  temper,  and  feminine  tenderness ;  but  not  only  do  pain 
and  disquiet,  and  the  change  induced  by  unkind  and  inauspicious 
influences,  enter  into  this  sweet  picture  to  mar  and  cloud  its  happy 
bnni'v, — but  the  portrait  itself  maybe  pronounced  out  of  drawing; — 
for  Massinger  apparently  had  not  sufficient  delicacy  of  sentiment  to 
work  out  his  own  conception  of  the  character  with  perfect  consistency. 
In  his  adaptation  of  the  story,  he  represents  the  mutual  love  of  Orlando 
and  Camiola  as  existing  previous  to  the  captivity  of  the  former,  and  on 
his  part  declared  with  many  vows  of  eternal  faith,  yet  she  requires  a 
written  contract  of  marriage  before  she  liberates  him.  It  will  perhaps 
be  said  that  she  has  penetrated  his  weakness,  and  anticipates  his 
falsehood :  miserable  excuse ! — how  could  a  magnanimous  woman  love  a 
man,  whose  falsehood  she  believes  but  possible? — or  loving  him,  how 
could  she  deign  to  secure  herself  by  such  means  against  the 
consequences  ?  Shakspeare  and  Nature  never  committed  such  a  solecism. 
Camiola  doubts  before  she  has  been  wronged  ;  the  firmness  and  assurance 
in  herself  border  on  harshness.  What  in  Portia  is  the  gentle  wisdom 
of  a  noble  nature,  appears,  in  Camiola,  too  much  a  spirit  of  calculation  : 
it  savors  a  little  of  the  counting-house.  As  Portia  is  the  heiress  of 
Belmont,  and  Camiola  a  merchant's  daughter,  the  distinction  may  be 


PORTIA.  19 

proper   and    characteristic,  but  it   is  not   in  favor  of  Camiola.     The 
contrast  may  be  thus  illustrated : 


You  have  heard  of  Bortoldo's  captivity,  and  tlie  king's  neglect,  the  greatness  of  his 
ransom ;  fifty  thousand  crowns,  Adorni !  Two  -parts  of  my  estate !  Yet  I  so  love  the 
gentlenian,  for  to  you  I  will  confess  my  weakness,  that  I  purpose  now,  when  he  is 
forsaken  by  the  king  and  his  own  hopes,  to  ransom  him. 

Maid  of  Honor,  Act  3. 


What  sum  owas  he  the  Jew  ? 

BASSANIO. 

For  me — three  thousand  ducats. 


What !  710  iruyre ! 

Pay  him  six  thousand  and  deface  the  bond, 

Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that, 

Before  a  friend  of  this  description 

Shall  lose  a  hair  thro'  my  Bassanio's  fault. 

You  shall  have  gold 

To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  o'er. 

Mercliant  of  Venice. 

Camiola,  who  is  a  Sicilian,  might  as  well  have  been  born  at  Amsterdam : 
Portia  could  have  only  existed  in  Italy.  Portia  is  profound  as  she  is 
brilliant ;  Camiola  is  sensible  and  sententious ;  she  asserts  her  dignity 
very  successfully;  but  we  cannot  for  a  moment  imagine  Portia  as 
reduced  to  the  necessity  of  asserting  hers.  The  idiot  Sylli,  in  "The 
Maid  of  Honor,"  who  follows  Camiola  like  one  of  the  deformed  dwarfs 
of  old  time,  is  an  intolerable  violation  of  taste  and  propriety,  and  it 
sensibly  lowers  our  impression  of  the  principal  character.  Shakspeare 
would  never  have  placed  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheck  in  constant  and 
immediate  approximation  with  such  a  woman  as  Portia. 

Lastly,  the  charm  of    the   poetical  coloring  is  wholly  wanting  in 
Camiola,  so  that  when  she  is  placed   in   contrast  with  the  glowing 


20  PORTIA. 

eloquence,  the  luxuriant  grace,  the  buoyant  spirit  of  Portia,  the  effect 
is  somewhat  that  of  coldness  and  formality.  Notwithstanding  the 
dignity  and  the  beauty  of  Massinger's  delineation,  and  the  noble 
self-devotion  of  Camiola,  which  I  acknowledge  and  admire,  the  two 
characters  will  admit  of  no  comparison  as  sources  of  contemplation  and 
pleasure. 


It  is  observable  that  something  of  the  intellectual  brilliance  of  Portia 
is  reflected  on  the  other  female  characters  of  the  "  Merchant  of  Venice," 
so  as  to  preserve  in  the  midst  of  contrast  a  certain  harmony  and 
keeping.    Thus  Jessica,  though  properly  kept  subordinate,  is  certainly 

A  most  beautiful  Pagan — a  most  sweet  Jew. 

She  cannot  be  called  a  sketch — or  if  a  sketch,  she  is  like  one  of  those 
dashed  off  in  glowing  colors  from  the  rainbow  palette  of  a  Rubens ; 
she  has  a  rich  tinge  of  orientalism  shed  over  her,  w^orthy  of  her  eastern 
origin.  In  any  other  play,  and  in  any  other  companionship  than  that 
of  the  matchless  Portia,  Jessica  would  make  a  very  beautiful  heroine 
of  herself.  Nothing  can  be  more  poetically,  more  classically  fanciful 
and  elegant,  than  the  scenes  between  her  and  Lorenzo ; — the  celebrated 
moonlight  dialogue,  for  instance,  which  we  all  have  by  heart.  Every 
sentiment  she  utters  interests  us  for  her  : — more  particularly  her  bashful 
self-reproach,  when  flying  in  the  disguise  of  a  page ; — 

I,  am  glad  'tis  night,  you  do  not  look  upon  me, 
For  I  am  much  asham'd  of  my  exchange ; 
But  love  is  blind,  and  lovers  cannot  see 
The  pretty  follies  that  themselves  commit ; 
For  if  they  could,  Cupid  himself  would  blush 
To  see  me  thus  transformed  to  a  boy. 

And  the  enthusiastic  and  generous  testimony  to  the  superior  graces 
and  accomplishments  of  Portia  comes  with  a  peculiar  grace  from  her 
lips. 

Why,  if  two  gods  should  play  some  heavenly  match. 
And  on  the  wager  lay  two  earthly  women, 


PORTIA.  21 

And  Portia  one,  there  must  be  something  else 
Pawned  with  the  other ;  for  the  poor  rude  world 
Hath  not  her  fellow. 

We  should  not,  however,  easily  pardon  her  for  cheating  her  father  with 
so  much  indifference,  but  for  the  perception  that  Shylock  values  his 
daughter  far  beneath  his  wealth. 

I  would  my  daughter  were  dead  at  my  foot,  and  the  jewels  in  her  ear  ! — would  she 
were  hearsed  at  my  foot,  and  the  ducats  in  her  cofRn  ! 

Nerissa  is  a  good  specimen  of  a  common  genus  of  characters ;  she  is 
a  clever  confidential  waiting-woman,  who  has  caught  a  little  of  her 
lady's  elegance  and  romance ;  she  affects  to  be  lively  and  sententious, 
falls  in  love,  and  makes  her  favor  conditional  on  the  fortune  of  the 
caskets,  and  in  short  mimics  her  mistress  with  good  emphasis  and 
discretion.  Nerissa  and  the  gay  talkative  Gratiano  are  as  well  matched 
as  the  incomparable  Portia  and  her  magnificent  and  captivating  lover. 


ISABELLA. 


The  character  of  Isabella,  considered  as  a  poetical  delineation,  is 
Jess  mixed  than  that  of  Portia  ;  and  the  dissimilarity  bet^Yeen  the 
two  appears,  at  first  view,  so  complete,  that  we  can  scarce  believe 
that  the  same  elements  enter  into  the  composition  of  each.  Yet  so 
it  is  ;  they  are  portrayed  as  equally  wise,  gracious,  virtuous,  fair,  and 
young  J  we  perceive  in  both  the  same  exalted  principle  and  firmness 
of  character  ;  the  same  depth  of  reflection  and  persuasive  eloquence  ; 
the  same  self-denying  generosity  and  capability  of  strong  affections ; 
and  we  must  wonder  at  that  marvellous  power  by  which  qualities  and 
endowments,  essentially  and  closely  allied,  are  so  combined  and 
modified  as  to  produce  a  result  altogether  different.  "  O  Nature  !  O 
Shakspeare  !  which  of  ye  drew  from  the  other  ?" 

Isabella  is  distinguished  from  Portia,  and  strongly  individualized  by 
a  certain  moral  grandeur,  a  saintly  grace,  something  of  vestal  dignity 
and  purity,  which  render  her  less  attractive  and  more  imposing  :  she 
is  "  severe  in  youthful  beauty,"  and  inspires  a  reverence  which  would 
have  placed  her  beyond  the  daring  of  one  unholy  wish  or  thought, 
except  in  such  a  man  as  Angelo — 

O  cnnning  enemy  !  that  to  catch  a  saint, 
With  saints  dost  bait  thy  liook. 

This  impression  of  her  character  is  conveyed  from  the  very  first, 
when  Lucio,  the  libertine  jester,  whose  coarse  audacious  wit  checks  at 
every  feather,  thus  expresses  his  respect  for  her, — 


24  ISABELLA. 

I  would  not,  though  'tis  my  familiar  sin 
With  maids  to  seem  the  lapwing,  and  to  jest. 
Tongue  far  from  heart — play  with  all  virgins  so. 
I  hold  you  as  a  thing  enskyed  and  sainted  ; 
By  your  renouncement  an  immortal  spirit, 
And  to  be  talked  with  in  sincerity. 
As  with  a  saint. 

A  strong  distinction  between  Isabella  and  Portia  is  produced  by  the 
circumstances  in  which  they  are  respectively  placed.  Portia  is  a 
high-born  heiress,  "  Lord  of  a  fair  mansion,  master  of  her  servants, 
queen  o'er  herself ;"  easy  and  decided  as  one  born  to  command,  and 
used  to  it.  Isabella  has  also  the  innate  dignity  which  renders  her 
"  queen  o'er  herself,"  but  she  has  lived  far  from  the  world  and  its 
pomps  and  pleasures  ;  she  is  one  of  a  consecrated  sisterhood — a 
novice  of  St.  Clare  ;  the  power  to  command  obedience  and  to  confer 
happiness  are  to  her  unknown.  Portia  is  a  splendid  creature,  radiant 
with  confidence,  hope,  and  joy.  She  is  like  the  orange-tree,  hung 
at  once  with  golden  fruit  and  luxuriant  flowers,  which  has  expanded 
into  bloom  and  fragrance  beneath  favoring  skies,  and  has  been  nursed 
into  beauty  by  the  sunshine  and  the  dews  of  heaven.  Isabella  is 
like  a  stately  and  graceful  cedar,  towering  on  some  Alpine  cliff, 
unbowed  and  unscathed  amid  the  storm.  She  gives  us  the  impression 
of  one  who  has  passed  under  the  ennobling  discipline  of  suffering 
and  self-denial  ;  a  melancholy  charm  tempers  the  natural  vigor  of  her 
mind  :  her  spirit  seems  to  stand  upon  an  eminence,  and  look  down 
upon  the  world  as  if  already  enskyed  and  sainted ;  and  yet  when 
brought  in  contact  with  that  world  which  she  inwardly  despises,  she 
shrinks  back  v\'ith  all  the  timidity  natural  to  her  cloistral  education. 

This  union  of  natural  grace  and  grandeur  with  the  habits  and 
sentiments  of  a  recluse, — of  austerity  of  life  with  gentleness  of 
manner, — of  inflexible  moral  principle  with  humility  and  even 
bashfulness  of  deportment,  is  delineated  with  the  most  beautiful  and 
wonderful  consistency.  Thus  when  her  brother  sends  to  her,  to 
entreat  her  mediation,  her  first  feeling  is  fear,  and  a  distrust  in  her 
own  powers  : 

.     .     .     Alas  !  what  poor  ability's  in  me 
To  do  him  good  ? 


ISABELLA.  25 

LUCIO. 

Essay  the  power  you  have. 

ISABELLA. 

My  power,  alas  !  I  doubt. 

In  the  first  scene  with  Angelo  she  seems  divided  between  her  love 
for  her  brother  and  the  sense  of  his  fault ;  between  her  self-respect 
and  her  maidenly  bashfulness.  She  begins  with  a  kind  of  hesitation 
"  at  w^ar  'twixt  will  and  will  not :"  and  when  Angelo  quotes  the  law,  and 
insists  on  the  justice  of  his  sentence,  and  the  responsibility  of  his 
station,  her  native  sense  of  moral  rectitude  and  severe  principles 
takes  the  lead,  and  she  shrinks  back  : — 

.     .     O  just,  but  severe  law  ! 

I  had  a  brother  then — Heaven  keep  your  lionor  ! 

(Reliring.') 

Excited  and  encouraged  by  Lucio,  and  supported  by  her  own  natural 
spirit,  she  returns  to  the  charge, — she  gains  energy  and  self-possession 
as  she  proceeds,  grows  more  earnest  and  passionate  from  the  difficulty 
she  encounters,  and  displays  that  eloquence  and  power  of  reasoning 
for  which  we  had  been  already  prepared  by  Claudio's  first  allusion 
to  her  : — 

In  her  youtli 

There  is  a  prone  and  speechless  dialect, 
Such  as  moves  men  ;  besides,  she  hath  prosperous  art, 
When  she  will  play  with  reason  and  discourse, 
And  well  slic  can  persuade. 

It  is  a  curious  coincidence,  that  Isabella,  exhorting  Angelo  to  mercy, 

avails   herself  of  precisely  the    same    arguments,    and   insists    on   the 

self-same  topics  which   Portia   addresses  to  Shylock  in   her  celebrated 

speech  ;  but  how  beautifully  and  how  truly  is  the  distinction  marked ! 

how  like,  and  yet  how  unlike  !     Portia's  eulogy  on  mercy  is  a  piece 

of  heavenly  rhetoric ;    it    falls   on    the  car  with    a    solemn    measured 

harmony  ;  it  is  the  voice  of  a  descended  angel  addressing  an  inferior 

4 


26  ISABELLA. 

nature  :  if  not  premeditated,  it  is  at  least  part  of  a  preconcerted 
scheme  j  while  Isabella's  pleadings  are  poured  from  the  abundance  of 
her  heart  in  broken  sentences,  and  with  the  artless  vehemence  of  one 
who  feels  that  life  and  death  hang  upon  her  appeal.  This  will  he 
best  understood  by  placing  the  corresponding  passages  in  immediate 
comparison  with  each  other. 


The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd, 

It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  dew  from  lieaven 

Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  bless'd : 

It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes  : 

'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 

The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown ; 

His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 

The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 

Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings : 

But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway — 

It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings. 


Well,  believe  this, 
No  ceremony  that  to  great  ones  'longs. 
Not  the  king's  crown,  nor  the  deputed  sword, 
The  marshal's  truncheon,  nor  the  judge's  robe, 
Become  them  with  one  half  so  good  a  grace 
As  mercy  does. 

PORTIA. 

Consider  this — 
Tliat  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Sliould  see  salvation.     We  do  pray  for  mercy ; 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy. 


Alas !  alas ! 
Why  all  the  souls  that  are,  were  forfeit  once ; 
And  He,  that  might  the  'vantage  best  have  took, 
Found  out  the  remedy.     How  would  you  be, 


ISABELLA.  27 

[f  He,  which  is  the  top  of  judgment,  should 
But  judge  you  as  you  are  ?     O  think  on  that, 
And  mercy  then  will  breathe  within  your  lips 
Like  man  new  made ! 

The  beautiful  things  which  Isabella  is  made  to  utter,  have,  like 
the  sayings  of  Portia,  become  proverbial ;  but  in  spirit  and  character 
they  are  as  distinct  as  are  the  tvvo  women.  In  all  that  Portia  says, 
we  confess  the  power  of  a  rich  poetical  imagination,  blended  with  a 
quick  practical  spirit  of  observation,  familiar  with  the  surfaces  of 
things ;  while  there  is  a  profound  yet  simple  morality,  a  depth  of 
religious  feeling,  a  touch  of  melancholy,  in  Isabella's  sentiments,  and 
something  earnest  and  authoritative  in  the  manner  and  expression,  as 
though  they  had  grown  up  in  her  mind  from  long  and  deep  meditation 
in  the  silence  and  solitude  of  her  convent  cell : 

O  it  is  excellent 
To  have  a  giant's  strength ;  but  it  is  t)rrannous  j 

To  use  it  like  a  giant. 

Could  great  men  thunder 
As  Jove  himself  does,  Jove  would  ne'er  be  quiet : 
For  every  pelting,  petty  officer 

Would  use  his  heaven  for  thunder ;  nothing  but  tliunder. 
Merciful  Heaven  ! 

Thou  rather  with  thy  sharp  and  sulphurous  bolt 
Split'st  the  unwedgeable  and  gnarled  oak 
Than  the  soft  myrtle.     O  but  man,  proud  man ! 
Drest  in  a  little  brief  authority. 
Most  ignorant  of  what  he's  most  assured, 
His  glassy  essence,  like  an  angry  ape. 
Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  Heaven, 
As  make  the  angels  weep. 

Great  men  may  jest  with  saints,  'tis  wit  in  them ; 
But  in  the  less,  foul  profanation. 
That  in  the  captain 's  but  a  choleric  word 
Which  in  the  soldier  is  flat  blasphemy. 

Authority,  although  it  err  like  others, 
Hath  yet  a  kind  of  medicine  in  itself 


28  ISABELLA. 

That  skins  the  vice  o'  the  top.     Go  to  your  bosom ; 

Knock  there,  and  ask  your  heart  what  it  doth  know 

That's  like  my  brother's  fault :  if  it  confess 

A  natural  guiltiness  such  as  his  is. 

Let  it  not  sound  a  thought  upon  your  tongue 

Against  my  brother's  life. 

Let  me  be  ignorant,  and  in  nothing  good, 
But  graciously  to  know  I  am  no  better. 

The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension ; 
And  the  poor  beetle  that  we  tread  upon, 
In  corporal  sufferance  finds  a  pang  as  great 
As  when  a  giant  dies  ! 

'Tis  not  impossible 
But  one,  tlie  wicked'st  caitiff  on  the  ground. 
May  seem  as  shy,  as  grave,  as  just,  as  absolute 
As  Angelo ;  even  so  may  Angelo, 
In  all  his  dressings,  characts,  titles,  forms. 
Be  an  arch  villain. 

Her  fine  powers  of  reasoning,  and  that  natural  uprightness  and 
purity,  which  no  sophistry  can  warp,  and  no  allurement  betray,  are 
farther  displayed  in  the  second  scene  with  Angelo. 

ANGELO. 

What  would  you  do  ? 

ISABELLA. 

As  much  for  my  poor  brother  as  myself ; 

That  is,  were  I  under  the  terms  of  death. 

The  impression  of  keen  whips  I'd  wear  as  rubies, 

And  strip  myself  to  death  as  to  a  bed 

That,  longing,  I  have  been  sick  for,  ere  I'd  yield 

My  body  up  to  shame. 

ANGELO. 

Then  must  your  brother  die. 


ISABELLA.  -2!) 


And  't  were  the  cheaper  way  : 
Better  it  were  a  brother  died  at  once, 
Than  that  a  sister,  by  redeeming  him. 
Should  die  for  ever. 


Were  not  you  then  as  cruel  as  the  sentence, 
That  you  have  slander'd  so  ! 


Ignominy  in  ransom,  and  free  pardon, 
Are  of  two  houses  :  lawful  mercy  is 
Nothing  aliin  to  foul  redemption. 


You  seem'd  of  late  to  make  the  law  a  t3rrant; 
And  rather  proved  the  sliding  of  your  brother 
A  merriment  than  a  vice. 

ISABELLA. 

0  pardon  me,  my  lord ;  it  oft  falls  out. 

To  have  what  we'd  have,  we  speak  not  what  we  mean : 

1  something  do  excuse  the  thing  I  hate. 
For  his  advantage  that  I  dearly  love. 

Towards  the  conclusion  of  the  play  we  have  another  instance  of 
that  rigid  sense  of  justice,  wliich  is  a  prominent  part  of  Isabella's 
character,  and  almost  silences  her  earnest  intercession  for  her  brother, 
when  his  fault  is  placed  between  her  plea  and  her  conscience.  The 
Duke  condemns  the  villain  Angelo  to  death,  and  his  wife  Mariana 
entreats  Isabella  to  plead  for  her. 

Sweet  Isabel,  take  my  part. 
Lend  me  your  knees,  and  all  my  life  to  come 
I  '11  lend  you  all  my  life  to  do  you  service. 

Isabella  remains  silent,  and  Mariana  reiterates  her  prayer. 


30  ISABELLA. 

MARIANA,  '"■ 

Sweet  Isabel,  do  yet  but  kneel  by  me, 

Hold  up  your  hands,  say  nothing,  I'll  speak  all ! 

O  Isabel !  will  you  not  lend  a  knee  ? 

Isabella,  thus    urged,  breaks    silence  and   appeals  to  the  Duke,  not 

with    supplication,  or    persuasion,  but    with    grave  argument,    and    a 

kind   of   dignified   humility    and   conscious    power,  which    are  finely 
characteristic  of  the  individual  woman. 

Most  bounteous  Sir, 
Look,  if  it  please  you,  on  this  man  condemn'd. 
As  if  my  brother  liv'd  ;  I  partly  think 
A  due  sincerity  governed  his  deeds 
Till  he  did  look  on  me  ;  since  it  is  so 
Let  him  not  die.     My  brother  had  but  justice, 
In  that  he  did  the  thing  for  which  he  died. 
For  Angelo, 

Ilis  art  did  not  o'ertake  his  bad  intent, 
That  perish'd  by  the  way :  thoughts  are  no  subjects. 
Intents,  but  merely  thoughts. 

In  this  instance,  as  in  the  one  before  mentioned,  Isabella's 
conscientiousness  is  overcome  by  the  only  sentiment  which  ought  to 
temper  justice  into  mercy,  the  power  of  affection  and  sympathy. 

Isabella's  confession  of  the  general  frailty  of  her  sex,  has  a 
peculiar  softness,  beauty,  and  propriety.  She  admits  the  imputation 
with  all  the  sympathy  of  woman  for  woman ;  yet  with  all  the 
dignity  of  one  who  felt  her  own  superiority  to  the  weakness  she 
acknowledges. 

ANGELO. 

Nay,  women  are  frail  too. 


Ay,  as  the  glasses  where  they  view  themselves  ; 
Which  are  as  easy  broke  as  they  make  forms. 
Women !  help  heaven !  men  their  creation  mar 
In  profiting  by  them.    Nay,  call  us  ten  times  frail ; 
For  we  are  soft  as  our  complexions  are, 
And  credulous  to  false  prints. 


ISABELLA.  31 

Nor  should  we  fail  to  remark  the  deeper  interest  which  is  thrown 
round  Isabella,  by  one  part  of  her  character,  which  is  betrayed  rather 
than  exhibited  in  the  progress  of  the  action  ;  and  for  which  we  are 
not  at  first  prepared,  though  it  is  so  perfectly  natural.  It  is  the  strong 
under-current  of  passion  and  enthusiasm  flowing  beneath  this  calm 
and  saintly  self-possession  ;  it  is  the  capacity  for  high  feeling,  and 
generous  and  strong  indignation,  veiled  beneath  the  sweet  austere 
composure  of  the  religious  recluse,  which,  by  the  very  force  of  contrast, 
powerfully  impress  the  imagination.  As  we  see  in  real  life  that 
where,  from  some  external  or  habitual  cause,  a  strong  control  is 
exercised  over  naturally  quick  feelings  and  an  impetuous  temper,  they 
display  themselves  with  a  proportionate  vehemence  when  that 
restraint  is  removed  j  so  the  very  violence  with  which  her  passions 
bm'st  forth,  when  opposed  or  under  the  influence  of  strong  excitement, 
is  admirably  characteristic. 

Thus  in  her  exclamation,  when  she  first  allows  herself  to  perceive 
Angelo's  vile  design — 


Ha  !  little  honor  to  be  much  believed, 

And  most  pernicious  purpose  ! — seeming ! — seeming ! 

I  will  proclaim  thee,  Angelo :  look  for  it  ! 

Sign  me  a  present  pardon  for  my  brother, 

Or  with  an  outstretched  throat  I'll  tell  the  world 

Aloud,  what  man  thou  art ! 

And  again,  where  she  finds  that  the  "  outward  sainted  deputy "  has 
deceived  her — 

O  I  will  to  him,  and  pluck  out  his  eyes  ! 
Unhappy  Claudio  !  wretched  Isabel ! 
Injurious  world  !  most  damned  Angelo ! 

She  places  at  first  a  strong  and  high-souled  confidence  in  her 
brother's  fortitude  and  magnanimity,  judging  him  by  her  own  lofty 
spirit  : 

I'll  to  my  brother  ; 
Though  he  hath  fallen  by  prompture  of  the  blood, 
Yet  hath  he  in  him  such  a  mind  of  honor, 


32  I  .S  A  B  E  L  L  A 

That  had  he  twenty  lieads  to  tender  down, 
On  twenty  bloody  blocks,  he'd  yield  them  up 
Before  his  sister  should  her  body  stoop 
To  such  abhorr'd  pollution. 

But  when  her  trust  in  his  honor  is  deceived  by  his  momentary 
weakness,  her  scorn  has  a  bitterness,  and  her  indignation  a  force  of 
expression  almost  fearful  ;  and  both  are  carried  to  an  extreme,  which 
is  perfectly  in  character  : 

O  faithless  coward  !  O  dishonest  wretch ! 

Wilt  thou  be  made  a  man  out  of  my  vice  ? 

Is  't  not  a  kind  of  incest  to  take  life 

From  thine  own  sister's  shame  ?     What  should  I  think  ? 

Heaven  shield,  my  mother  play'd  my  father  fair ! 

For  such  a  warped  slip  of  wilderness 

Ne'er  issued  from  his  blood.     Take  my  defiance  : 

Die!  perish!  might  but  my  bending  down 

Reprieve  thee  from  thy  fate,  it  should  proceed. 

I'll  pray  a  thousand  prayers  for  thy  death, 

No  word  to  save  thee. 

The  whole  of  this  scene  with  Claudio  is  inexpressibly  grand  in  the 
poetry  and  the  sentiment  ;  and  the  entire  play  abounds  in  those 
passages  and  phrases  which  must  have  become  trite  from  familiar  and 
constant  use  and  abuse,  if  their  wisdom  and  unequalled  beauty  did  not 
invest  them  with  an  immortal  freshness  and  vigor,  and  a  perpetual 
charm. 

The  story  of  Measure  for  Measure  is  a  tradition  of  great  antiquity, 
of  which  there  are  several  versions,  narrative  and  dramatic.  A 
contemptible  tragedy,  the  Promos  and  Cassandra  of  George  Whetstone, 
is  supposed,  from  various  coincidences,  to  have  furnished  Shakspeare 
with  the  ground-work  of  the  play  ;  but  the  character  of  Isabella  is, 
in  conception  and  execution,  all  his  own.  The  commentators  have 
collected  with  infinite  industry  all  the  sources  of  the  plot ;  but  to  the 
grand  creation  of  Isabella,  they  award  either  silence  or  worse  than 
silence.  Johnson  and  the  rest  of  the  black-letter  Crew  pass  her  over 
without  a  word.  One  critic,  a  lady-critic  too,  whose  name  I  will  be 
so  merciful  as  to  suppress,  treats  Isabella  as  a  coarse  vixen.     Hazlitt 


ISABELLA.  33 

with  that  strange  perversion  of  sentiment  and  want  of  taste  which 
sometimes  mingle  with  his  piercing  and  powerful  intellect,  dismisses 
Isahella  with  a  slight  remark,  that  "  we  are  not  greatly  enamored 
of  her  rigid  chastity,  nor  can  we  feel  much  confidence  in  the  virtue 
tjiat  is  sublimely  good  at  another's  expense."  "What  shall  we  answer 
to  such  a  criticism  1  Upon  what  ground  can  we  read  the  play  from 
beginning  to  end,  and  doubt  the  angel-purity  of  Isabella,  or  contemplate 
her  possible  lapse  from  virtue  1  Such  gratuitous  mistrust  is  here  a 
sin  against  the  light  of  heaven. 

Having  waste  ground  enough, 
Shall  we  desire  to  raze  the  sanctuary, 
And  pitch  our  evils  there  ? 

Professor  Richardson  is  more  just,  and  truly  sums  up  her  character 
as  "  amiable,  pious,  sensible,  resolute,  determined,  and  eloquent  :"  but 
his  remarks  are  rather  superficial. 

Schlegel's  observations  are  also  brief  and  general,  and  in  no  way 
distinguish  Isabella  from  many  other  characters ;  neither  did  his 
plan  allow  him  to  be  more  minute.  Of  the  play  altogether,  he 
observes  very  beautifully,  "  that  the  title  Measure  for  Measure  is  in 
reality  a  misnomer,  the  sense  of  the  whole  being  properly  the  triumph 
of  mercy  over  strict  justice  :"  but  it  is  also  true,  that  there  is  "  an 
original  sin  in  the  nature  of  the  subject,  which  prevents  us  from 
taking  a  cordial  interest  in  it."  *  Of  all  the  characters,  Isabella 
alone  has  our  sympathy.  But  though  she  triumphs  in  the  conclusion, 
her  triumph  is  not  produced  in  a  pleasing  manner.  There  are  too 
many  disguises  and  tricks,  too  many  "  by-paths  and  indirect  crooked 
ways,"  to  conduct  us  to  the  natural  and  foreseen  catastrophe,  which 
the  Duke's  presence  throughout  renders  inevitable.  This  Duke  seems 
to  have  a  predilection  for  bringing  about  justice  by  a  most  unjustifiable 
succession  of  falsehoods  and  counterplots.  He  really  deserves  Lucio's 
satirical  designation,  who  somewhere  styles  him  "  The  Fantastical 
Duke  of  Dark  Corners."  But  Isabella  is  ever  consistent  in  her  pure 
and  upright  simplicity,  and  in  the  midst  of  this  simulation,  expresses 
a  characteristic  disapprobation  of  the  part  she  is  made  to  play, 

*  Characters  of  Shakspeare's  Plays, 
5 


34  ISABELLA. 

To  speak  so  indirectly  I  am  loth  : 
I  would  say  the  truth.* 

She  yields  to  the  supposed  Friar  with  a  kind  of  forced  docility, 
because  her  situation  as  a  religious  novice,  and  his  station,  habit, 
and  authority,  as  her  spiritual  director,  demand  this  sacrifice.  In  the 
end  we  are  made  to  feel  tliat  her  transition  from  the  convent  to 
the  tlirone  has  but  placed  this  noble  creature  in  her  natural  sphere  : 
for  though  Isabella,  as  Duchess  of  Vienna,  could  not  more  command 
our  highest  reverence  than  Isabel  the  novice  of  Saint  Clare,  yet  a 
wider  range  of  usefulness  and  benevolence,  of  trial  and  action,  was 
better  suited  to  the  large  capacity,  the  ardent  affections,  the  energetic 
intellect,  and  firm  principle  of  such  a  woman  as  Isabella,  than  the 
walls  of  a  cloister.  The  philosophical  Duke  observes  in  the  very  first 
scene — 

Spirits  are  not  finely  touched, 
But  to  fine  issues :  nor  nature  never  lends 
The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence, 
But  hke  a  thrifty  goddess  she  determines, 
Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor, 
Both  thanks  and  use.f 

This  profound  and  beautiful  sentiment  is  illustrated  in  the  character 
and  destiny  of  Isabella.  She  says,  of  herself,  that  "  she  has  spirit  to 
act  whatever  her  heart  approves  ;"  and  what  her  heart  approves  we 
know. 

In  the  convent  (which  may  stand  here  poetically  for  any  narrow 
and  obscure  situation  in  which  such  a  woman  might  be  placed), 
Isabella  would  not  have  been  unhappy,  but  happiness  would  have 
been  the  result  of  an  effort,  or  of  the  concentration  of  her  great 
mental  powers  to  some  particular  purpose ;  as  St.  Theresa's  intellect, 
enthusiasm,  tenderness,  restless  activity,  and  burning  eloquence, 
governed  by  one  overpowering  sentiment  of  devotion,  rendered  her 
the  most  extraordinary  of  saints.  Isabella,  like  St.  Theresa,  complains 
that  the  rules  of   her  order  are    not   sufficiently  severe,  and   from   the 

•  Act  iv.  Scene  5.  f  ^*^>  i-  ^-  usury,  interest. 


ISABELLA.  35 

same  cause, — that  from  the  consciousness  of  strong  intellectual  and 
imaginative  power,  and  of  overflowing  sensibility,  she  desires  a  more 
'  strict  restraint,"  or,  from  the  continual,  involuntary  struggle  against 
(he  trammels  imposed,  feels  its  necessity. 

ISABELLA. 

And  have  you  nuns  no  further  j^rivilog-es  ? 

FRANCISCA. 

Are  not  these  large  enough  ? 

ISABELLA. 

Yes  truly  ;  I  speak,  not  as  desiring  more, 
But  rather  wishing  a  more  strict  restraint 
Upon  the  sisterhood. 

Such  women  as  Desdemona  and  Ophelia  would  have  passed  their 
l\  'es  in  the  seclusion  of  a  nunnery,  without  wishing,  like  Isabella,  for 
stricter  bonds,  or  planning,  like  St.  Theresa,  the  reformation  of  their 
order,  simply,  because  any  restraint  would  have  been  efficient,  as  far 
as  they  were  concerned.  Isabella,  "  dedicate  to  nothing  temporal," 
might  have  found  resignation  through  self-government,  or  have 
become  a  religious  enthusiast :  while  "  place  and  greatness"  would 
have  appeared  to  her  strong  and  upright  mind,  only  a  more  extended 
field  of  action,  a  tnist  and  a  trial.  The  mere  trappings  of  power 
and  state,  the  gemmed  coronal,  the  ermined  robe,  she  would  have 
regarded  as  the  outward  emblems  of  her  earthly  profession ;  and 
would  have  worn  them  with  as  much  simplicity  as  her  novice's  hood 
and  scapular;  still,  under  whatever  guise  she  might  tread  this  thorny 
world — the  same  "  angel  of  light." 


.vucjj  ADO  .i.'^oi/r  A-oT/sirff 

A::-*:  1    3c  1 


BEATRICE- 


Shakspkare  has  exhibited  in  Beatrice  a  spirited  and  faithful  portrait  of 
the  fine  lady  of  his  own  time.  The  deportment,  language,  manners,  and 
allusions,  are  those  of  a  particular  class  in  a  particular  age ;  but  the 
individual  and  dramatic  character  which  forms  the  groundwork,  is 
strongly  discriminated  ;  and  being  taken  from  general  nature,  belongs  to 
every  age.  In  Beatrice,  high  intellect  and  high  animal  spirits  meet, 
and  excite  each  other  like  fire  and  air.  In  her  wit  (which  is  brilliant 
without  being  imaginative)  there  is  a  touch  of  insolence,  not  unfrequent 
in  women  when  the  wit  predominates  over  reflection  and  imagination. 
In  her  temper,  too,  there  is  a  slight  infusion  of  the  termagant ;  and  her 
satirical  humor  plays  with  such  an  unrespectivc  levity  over  all  subjects 
alike,  that  it  required  a  profound  knowledge  of  women  to  bring  such  a 
character  within  the  pale  of  our  sympathy.  But  Beatrice,  though 
wilful,  is  not  wayward  ;  she  is  volatile,  not  unfeeling.  She  has  not  only 
an  exuberance  of  wit  and  gaiety,  but  of  heart,  and  soul,  and  energy  of 
spirit ;  and  is  no  more  like  the  fine  ladies  of  modern  comedy, — whose 
wit  consists  in  a  temporary  allusion,  or  a  play  upon  words,  and  whose 
petulance  is  displayed  in  a  toss  of  the  head,  a  flirt  of  the  fan,  or  a 
flourish  of  the  pocket  handkerchief, — than  one  of  our  modern  dandies  is 
like  Sir  Philip  Sydney. 

In  Beatrice,  Shakspeare  has  contrived  that  the  poetry  of  the  character 
shall  not  only  soften,  but  heighten  its  comic  efTect.  We  are  not  only 
inclined  to  forgive  Beatrice  all  her  scornful  airs,  all  her  biting  jests,  all 
her  assumption  of  superiority ;  but  they  amuse  and  delight  us  the  more, 
when  we  find  her,  with  all  the  headlong  simplicity  of  a  child,  falling  at 
once  into  the  snare  laid  for  her  aflcctions ;  when  we  see  her,  who 
thought  a  man  of  God's  making  not  good  enough  for  her,  who  disdained 
to  be  o'ermastered  by  "  a  piece  of  valiant  dust,"  stooping  like  the  rest 


38  BEATRICE. 

of  her  sex,  vailing  her  proud  spirit,  and  taming  her  wild  heart  to  the 
loving  hand  of  him  whom  she  had  scorned,  flouted,  and  misused,  "  past 
the  endurance  of  a  block."  And  we  are  yet  more  completely  won  by 
her  generous  enthusiastic  attachment  to  her  cousin.  When  the  father 
of  Hero  believes  the  tale  of  her  guilt ;  when  Claudio,  her  lover,  without 
remorse  or  a  lingering  doubt,  consigns  her  to  shame ;  when  the  Friar 
remains  silent,  and  the  generous  Benedick  himself  knows  not  what  to 
say,  Beatrice,  confident  in  her  affections,  and  guided  only  by  the  impulses 
of  her  own  feminine  heart,  sees  through  the  inconsistency,  the 
impossibility  of  the  charge,  and  exclaims,  without  a  moment's  hesitation, 

O,  on  my  soul,  my  cousin  is  belied  ! 

Schlegel,  in  his  remarks  on  the  play  of  "  Much  Ado  about  nothing," 
has  given  us  an  amusing  instance  of  that  sense  of  reality  with  which  we 
are  impressed  by  Shakspeare's  characters.  He  says  of  Benedick  and 
Beatrice,  as  if  he  had  known  them  personally,  that  the  exclusive 
direction  of  their  pointed  raillery  against  each  other  "  is  a  proof  of  a 
growing  inclination."  This  is  not  likely;  and  the  same  inference 
would  lead  us  to  suppose  that  this  mutual  inclination  had  commenced 
before  the  opening  of  the  play.  The  very  first  words  uttered  by  Beatrice 
are  an  inquiry  after  Benedick,  though  expressed  with  her  usual  arch 
impertinence : — 

I  pray  you,  is  Signior  Montanto  returned  from  the  wars,  or  no  ? 

I  pray  you,  how  many  hath  he  killed  and  eaten  in  these  wars  ?  But  how  many 
hath  he  killed  ?  for  indeed  I  promised  to  cat  all  of  his  killing. 

And  in  the  unprovoked  hostility  with  which  she  falls  upon  him  in  his 
absence,  in  the  pertinacity  and  bitterness  of  her  satire,  there  is  certainly 
great  argument  that  he  occupies  much  more  of  her  thoughts  than  she 
would  have  been  willing  to  confess,  even  to  herself.  In  the  same 
manner,  Benedick  betrays  a  lurking  partiality  for  his  fascinating  enemy  ; 
he  shows  that  he  has  looked  upon  her  with  no  careless  eye,  when  he 
says, 

There's  her  cousin  (meaning  Beatrice),  an'  she  were  not  possessed  with  a  fury, 
excels  her  as  much  in  beauty  as  the  first  of  May  does  the  last  of  Decembre 


BEATRICE.  39 

Infinite  skill,  as  well  as  humor,  is  r^hown  in  making  this  pair  of  airy 
Dcings  the  exact  counterpart  of  each  other ;  but  of  the  two  portraits, 
that  of  Benedick  is  by  far  the  most  pleasing,  because  the  independence 
and  gay  indifference  of  temper,  the  laughing  defiance  of  love  and 
marriage,  the  satirical  freedom  of  expression,  common  to  both,  are  more 
becoming  to  the  masculine  than  to  the  feminine  character.  Any  woman 
might  love  such  a  cavalier  as  Benedick,  and  be  proud  of  his  affection  ; 
his  valor,  his  wit,  and  his  gaiety  sit  so  gracefully  upon  him !  and  his 
light  scoffs  against  the  power  of  love  are  but  just  sufficient  to  render 
more  piquant  the  conquest  of  this  "  heretic  in  despite  of  beauty."  But 
a  man  might  well  be  pardoned  who  should  shrink  from  encountering 
such  a  spirit  as  that  of  Beatrice,  unless,  indeed,  he  had  "  served  an 
apprenticeship  to  the  taming  school."  The  wit  of  Beatrice  is  less  good- 
humored  than  that  of  Benedick ;  or,  from  the  difference  of  sex,  appears 
so.  It  is  observable,  that  the  power  is  throughout  on  her  side,  and  the 
sympathy  and  interest  on  his :  which,  by  reversing  the  usual  order  of 
things,  seems  to  excite  us  against  the  grain,  if  I  may  use  such  an 
expression.  In  all  their  encounters  she  constantly  gets  the  better  of 
him,  and  the  gentleman's  wits  go  off  halting,  if  he  is  not  himself  fairly 
hors  de  combat.  Beatrice,  woman  like,  generally  has  the  first  word, 
and  will  have  the  last.  Thus,  when  they  first  meet,  she  begins  by 
provoking  the  merry  warfare  :  — 

I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking,  Signior  Benedick  ;  nobody  marks  you. 

BENEDICK. 

What,  my  dear  Lady  Disdain  !  are  you  yet  living  ? 

JIEATRICE. 

Is  it  possible  Disdain  should  die,  while  she  hath  such  meet  food  to  feed  it  as 
Signior  Benedick?  Courtesy  itself  must  ccnvert  to  disdain,  if  you  come  in  her 
presence. 

It  is  clear  that  she  cannot  for  a  moment  endure  his  neglect,  and  he 
can  as  little  tolerate  her  scorn.  Nothing  that  Benedick  addresses  to 
Beatrice  personally  can  equal  the  malicious  force  of  some  of  her  attacks 
vipon  him :  he  is  either   restrained  by  a  feeling  of  natural  gallantry, 


40  BEATRICE. 

little  as  she  deserves  the  consideration  due  to  her  sex  (for  a  female 
satirist  ever  places  herself  beyond  the  pale  of  such  forbearance),  or  he  is 
subdued  by  her  superior  volubility.  He  revenges  himself,  however,  in 
her  absence  :  he  abuses  her  with  such  a  variety  of  comic  invective,  and 
pours  forth  his  pent-up  wrath  with  r.uch  a  ludicrous  extravagance 
and  exaggeration,  that  he  betrays  at  once  how  deep  is  his  mortification, 
and  how  unreal  his  enmity. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  tilting  and  sparring  of  their  nimble  and  fiery 
wits,  we  find  them  infinitely  anxious  for  the  good  opinion  of  each  other, 
and  secretly  impatient  of  each  other's  scorn  :  but  Beatrice  is  the  most 
truly  indifferent  of  the  two  ;  the  most  assured  of  herself.  The  comic 
effect  produced  by  their  mutual  attachment,  which,  however  natural  and 
expected,  comes  upon  us  with  all  the  force  of  a  surprise,  cannot  be 
surpassed :  and  how  exquisitely  characteristic  the  mutual  avowal ! 

BENEDICK. 

By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me. 

BEATRICE. 

Do  not  swear  by  it,  and  eat  it. 

BENEDICK. 

I  will  swear  by  it,  that  you  love  me  ;  and  I  will  make  him  eat  it,  that  saya,  I  love 
not  you. 

BEATRICE. 

Will  you  not  eat  your  word  ? 

BENEDICK. 

With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it :  I  protest,  I  love  thee. 

BEATRICE. 

Why,  then,  God  forgive  me  ! 

BENEDICK. 

What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice  ? 

BEATRICE. 

You  stayed  me  in  a  happy  hour.    I  was  about  to  protest,  I  loved  you. 


BEATRICE.  41 

BENEDICK. 

And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart. 

BEATRICE. 

I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart,  that  there  is  none  left  to  protest. 

But  here  again  the  dominion  rests  with  Beatrice,  and  she  appears  in  a 
less  amiable  light  than  her  lover.  Benedick  surrenders  his  whole  heart 
to  her  and  to  his  new  passion.  The  re\'ulsion  of  feeling  even  causes 
it  to  overflow  in  an  excess  of  fondness ;  but  with  Beatrice  temper  has 
still  the  mastery.  The  affection  of  Benedick  induces  him  to  challenge 
his  intimate  friend  for  her  sake,  but  the  affection  of  Beatrice  does  not 
prevent  her  from  risking  the  life  of  her  lover. 

The  character  of  Hero  is  well  contrasted  with  that  of  Beatrice,  and 
their  mutual  attachment  is  very  beautiful  and  natural.  Wlien  they  are 
both  on  the  scene  together,  Hero  has  but  little  to  say  for  herself: 
Beatrice  asserts  the  rule  of  a  master  spirit,  eclipses  her  by  her  mental 
superiority,  abashes  her  by  her  raillery,  dictates  to  her,  answers  for 
her,  and  would  fain  inspire  her  gentle-hearted  cousin  with  some  of  her 
own  assurance. 

Yes,  faith ;  it  is  my  cousin's  duty  to  make  a  curtsey,  and  say,  "  Father,  as  it  please 
you ;"  but  yet,  for  all  that,  cousin,  let  him  be  a  handsome  fellow,  or  else  make  another 
curtsey,  and,  "  Father,  as  it  please  me." 

But  Shakspeare  knew  well  how  to  make  one  character  subordinate 
to  another,  without  sacrificing  the  slightest  portion  of  its  effect ;  and 
Hero,  added  to  her  grace  and  softness,  and  all  the  interest  which 
attaches  to  her  as  the  sentimental  heroine  of  the  play,  possesses  an 
intellectual  beauty  of  her  o-wn.  When  she  has  Beatrice  at  an  advantage, 
she  repays  her  with  interest,  in  the  severe,  but  most  animated  and 
elegant  picture  she  draws  of  her  cousin's  imperious  character  and 
unbridled  levity  of  tongue.  The  portrait  is  a  little  overcharged, 
because  administered  as  a  corrective,  and  intended  to  be  overheard. 

But  nature  never  fram'd  a  woman's  heart 

Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice : 
6 


42  BEATRICE. 

Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  lier  eyes, 
Misprising  wliat  they  look  on  ;  and  her  wit. 
Values  itself  so  highly,  that  to  her 
All  matter  else  seems  weak  ;  she  cannot  love, 
Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 
She  is  so  self-endeared. 


URSULA. 

Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  commendable. 


No  :  not  to  be  so  odd,  and  from  all  fashions. 
As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable : 
But  who  dare  tell  her  so  ?     If  I  should  speak, 
She'd  mock  me  into  air  :  O  she  would  laugh  me 
Out  of  myself,  press  me  to  death  with  wit. 
Therefore  let  Benedick,  like  cover'd  fire, 
Consume  away  in  sighs,  waste  inwardly  : 
It  were  a  better  death  than  die  with  mocks, 
Which  is  as  bad  as  die  with  tickling. 

Beatrice  never  appears  to  greater  advantage  than  in  her  soliloquy 
after  leaving  her  concealment  "  in  the  pleached  bower  where  honey- 
suckles, ripened  by  the  sun,  forbid  the  sun  to  enter ; "  she  exclaims, 
after  listening  to  this  tirade  against  herself, — 


What  fire  is  in  mine  ears  ?     Can  this  be  true  ? 
Stand  I  condemned  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much  ? 

The  sense  of  wounded  vanity  is  lost  in  bitter  feelings,  and  she  is 
infinitely  more  struck  by  what  is  said  in  praise  of  Benedick,  and  the 
history  of  his  supposed  love  for  her,  than  by  the  dispraise  of  herself. 
The  immediate  success  of  the  trick  is  a  most  natural  consequence  of  the 
self-assurance  and  magnanimity  of  her  character ;  she  is  so  accustomed 
to  assert  dominion  over  the  spirits  of  others,  that  she  cannot  suspect 
the  possibility  of  a  plot  laid  against  herself. 

A    haughty,    excitable,    and    violent    temper    "s    another    of    the 
characteristics   of    Beatrice ;    but  there   is  more   of  impulse   than  of 


BEATRICE.  43 

passion  in  her  vehemence.  In  the  marriage  scene  where  she  has 
beheld  her  gentle  spirited  cousin, — whom  she  loves  the  more  for  those 
very  qualities  which  are  most  unlike  her  own, — slandered,  deserted, 
and  devoted  to  public  shame,  her  indignation,  and  the  eagerness  with 
which  she  hungers  and  thirsts  after  revenge,  are,  like  the  rest  of  her 
(character,  open,  ardent,  impetuous,  but  not  deep  or  implacable.  When 
she  bursts  into  that  outrageous  speech — 

Is  he  not  approved  in  the  heiglit  a  villain  that  hath  slandered,  scorned,  dishonored 
my  Icinswoman  ?  O  that  I  were  a  man !  What !  bear  her  in  hand  until  they  come 
to  take  hands;  and  then,  with  public  accusation,  uncovered  slander,  unmitigated 
rancor — O  God  that  I  were  a  man !  I  would  eat  his  heart  in  the  market-place  ! 

And  when  she  commends  her  lover,  as  the  first  proof  of  his  affection, 

"  to  kill  Claudio,"  the  very  consciousness  of  the  exaggeration, — of  the 

contrast  between  the  real  good-nature  of  Beatrice  and  the  fierce  tenor 

of  her  language,  keeps  alive  the  comic  effect,  mingling  the  ludicrous 

with   the   serious.     It  is   remarkable,   that,  notwithstanding   the  point 

and   vivacity   of  the   dialogue,   few   of  the   speeches   of   Beatrice    are 

capable  of  a  general  application,  or  engrave  themselves  distinctly  on 

the  memory ;  they  contain  more  mirth  than  matter ;  and  though  wit  be 

the  predominant  feature  in  the  dramatic  portrait,  Beatrice  more  charms 

and  dazzles  us  by  what  she  is,  than  by  what  she  says.     It  is  not  merely 

her  sparkling  repartees  and  saucy  jests,  it  is  the  soul  of  wit,  and   the 

spirit  of  gaiety  in  forming  the  whole  character, — looking  out  from  her 

brilliant  eyes,  and   laughing  on  her  full  lips  that  pout  with  scorn, — 

which  we  have  before  us,  moving  and  full  of  life.     On  the  whole,  we 

dismiss  Benedick  and  Beatrice  to  their  matrimonial  bonds,  rather  with 

a  sense  of  amusement,  than  a  feeling  of  congratulation  or  sympathy ; 

rather  with    an    acknowledgment    that    they    are    well-matched,   and 

worthy  of  each  other,  than  with  any  well-founded  expectation  of  their 

domestic  tranquillity.     If,  as  Benedick  asserts,  they  are  both,  "  too  wise 

to  woo  peaceably,"  it  may  be  added,  that  both  are  too  wise,  too  witty, 

and  too  wilful,  to  live  peaceably  together.     We  have  some  misgivings 

about    Beatrice — some    apprehensions,   that    poor    Benedick  will    not 

escape  the  "predestinated  scratched  face,"  which  he  had  foretold   to 

him  who  should  win  and  wear  this  quick-witted  and  pleasant-spirited 


44  B  E  A  T  11  I  C  E  . 

lady  J  yet  when  we  recollect  that  to  the  wit  and  imperious  temper  of 
Beatrice  is  united  a  magnanimity  of  spirit  which  would  naturally  place 
her  far  above  all  selfishness,  and  all  paltry  struggles  for  power — when 
we  perceive,  in  the  midst  of  her  sarcastic  levity  and  volubility  of 
tongue,  so  much  of  generous  affection,  and  such  a  high  sense  of  female 
virtue  and  honor,  we  are  inclined  to  hope  the  best.  We  think  it 
possible  that  though  tne  gentleman  may  now  and  then  swear,  and  the 
lady  scold,  the  native  good-humor  of  the  one,  the  really  fine 
understanding  of  the  other,  and  the  value  they  so  evidently  attach  to 
each  other's  esteem,  will  ensure  them  a  tolerable  portion  of  domestic 
felicily,  and  in  this  hope  we  leave  them. 


./, 


ROSALIND. 


I  COME  now  to  Rosalind,  ^vhom  I  should  have  ranked  before 
Beatrice,  inasmuch  as  the  greater  degree  of  her  sex's  softness  and 
sensibility,  united  with  equal  wit  and  intellect,  give  her  the  superiority 
as  a  woman  ;  but  that,  as  a  dramatic  character,  she  is  inferior  in 
force.  The  portrait  is  one  of  infinitely  more  delicacy  and  variety, 
hut  of  less  strength  and  depth.  It  is  easy  to  seize  on  the  prominent 
features  in  the  mind  of  Beatrice,  but  extremely  difficult  to  catch  and 
fix  the  more  fanciful  graces  of  Rosalind.  She  is  like  a  compound  of 
essences,  so  volatile  in  their  nature,  and  so  exquisitely  blended,  that 
on  any  attempt  to  analyze  them,  they  seem  to  escape  us.  To  what 
else  shall  we  compare  her,  all-enchanting  as  she  is  ?— to  the  silvery 
summer  clouds,  which,  even  while  we  gaze  on  them,  shift  their  hues 
and  forms,  dissolving  into  air,  and  light,  and  rainbow  showers  1—io 
the  May  morning,  flush  with  opening  hlossoms  and  roseate  dews,  and 
"  charm  of  earliest  birds  ?  "—to  some  wild  and  beautiful  melody, 
such  as  some  shepherd  boy  might  "  pipe  to  Amarillis  in  the  shade  ? " 
— to  a  mountain  streamlet,  now  smooth  as  a  mirror  in  which  the 
skies  may  glass  themselves,  and  anon  leaping  and  sparkling  in  the 
sunshine— or  rather  to  the  very  sunshine  itself  ?  for  so  her  genial 
spirit  touches    into   life  and  beauty  whatever  it  shines  on  ! 

But  this  impression,  though  produced  by  the  complete  development 
of  the  character,  and  in  the  end  possessing  the  whole  fancy,  is  not 
immediate.  The  first  introduction  of  Rosalind  is  less  striking  than 
interesting  ;  we  see  her  a  dependant,  almost  a  captive,  in  the  house 
of  her  usurping  uncle  ;  her  genial  spirits  are  subdued  by  her 
situation,  and  the  remembrance  of  her  banished  father :  her  playfulness 
IS  under  a  temporary  eclipse. 


46  ROSALIND. 

I  pray  thee,  Rosalind,  sweet  my  coz,  be  merry  ' 

is  ail   adjuration   which   Rosalind   needed   not   when   once    at   liberty 
and  sporting  "  under  the  greenwood  tree."     The  sensibility  and  even 
pensiveness  of  her  demeanor  in  the  first  instance,  render  her  archness 
and  gaiety  afterwards,  more  graceful,  and  more  fascinating. 

Though  Rosalind  is  a  princess,  she  is  a  princess  of  Arcady  ;  and 
notwithstanding  the  charming  effect  produced  by  her  first  scenes,  we 
scarcely  ever  think  of  her  with  a  reference  to  them,  or  associate  her 
with  a  court,  and  the  artificial  appendages  of  her  rank.  She  was  not 
made  to  "  lord  it  o'er  a  fair  mansion,"  and  take  state  upon  her  like 
the  all-accomplished  Portia  ;  but  to  breathe  the  free  air  of  heaven, 
and  frolic  among  green  leaves.  She  was  not  made  to  stand  the  siege 
of  daring  profligacy,  and  oppose  high  action  and  high  passion  to  the 
assaults  of  adverse  fortune,  like  Isabel  ;  but  to  "  fleet  the  time 
carelessly  as  they  did  i'  the  golden  age."  She  w^as  not  made  to 
bandy  wit  with  lords,  and  tread  courtly  measures  with  plumed  and 
warlike  cavaliers,  like  Beatrice  ;  but  to  dance  on  the  green  sward, 
and  "  murmur  among  living  brooks  a  music  sweeter  than  their  own." 

Though  sprightliness  is  the  distinguishing  characteristic  of  Rosalind, 
as  of  Beatrice,  yet  we  find  her  much  more  nearly  allied  to  Portia  in 
temper  and  intellect.  The  tone  of  her  mind  is,  like  Portia's,  genial 
and  buoyant  :  she  has  something  too  of  her  softness  and  sentiment  ; 
there  is  the  same  confiding  abandonment  of  self  in  her  affections  ; 
but  the  characters  are  otherwise  as  distinct  as  the  situations  are 
dissimilar.  The  age,  the  manners,  the  circumstance  in  which 
Shakspeare  has  placed  his  Portia,  are  not  beyond  the  bounds  of 
probability  ;  nay,  have  a  certain  reality  and  locality.  We  fancy  her 
a  cotemporary  of  the  Raffaelles  and  the  Ariostos ;  the  sea-wedded 
Venice,  its  merchants,  and  Magnificos, — the  Rialto,  and  the  long 
canals, — rise  up  before  us  when  we  think  of  her.  But  Rosalind  is 
surrounded  with  the  purely  ideal  and  imaginative;  the  reality  is  in 
the  characters  and  in  the  sentiments,  not  in  the  circumstances  or 
situation.  Portia  is  dignified,  splendid  and  romantic;  Rosalind  is 
playful,  pastoral  and  picturesque :  both  are  in  the  highest  degree 
poetical,  but  the  one  is  epic  and  the  other  lyric. 

Everything    about  Rosalind  breathes   of  "youth  and   youth's   sweet 


ROSALIND.  47 

prime."  She  is  fresh  as  the  morning,  sweet  as  the  dew-awakenerl 
blossoms,  and  light  as  the  breeze  that  plays  among  them.  She  is 
as  witty,  as  voluble,  as  sprightly  as  Beatrice ;  but  in  a  style  altogether 
distinct.  In  both,  the  wit  is  equally  unconscious;  but  in  Beatrice  it 
plays  about  us  like  the  lightning,  dazzling  but  also  alarming ;  while 
the  wit  of  Rosalind  bubbles  up  and  sparkles  like  the  living  fountain, 
refreshing  all  around.  Her  volubility  is  like  the  bird's  song;  it  is 
the  outpouring  of  a  heart  filled  to  overflowing  with  life,  love,  and 
joy,  and  all  sweet  and  affectionate  impulses.  She  has  as  much 
tenderness  as  mirth,  and  in  her  most  petulant  raillery  there  is  a 
touch  of  softness — "  By  this  hand  it  will  not  hurt  a  fly !  "  As  her 
vivacity  never  lessens  our  impression  of  her  sensibility,  so  she  wears 
her  masculine  attire  without  the  slightest  impugnment  of  her  delicacy. 
Shakspeare  did  not  make  the  modesty  of  his  women  depend  on  their 
dress,  as  we  shall  see  further  when  we  come  to  Viola  and  Imogen. 
Rosalind  has  in  truth  "  no  doublet  and  hose  in  her  disposition." 
How  her  heart  seems  to  throb  and  flutter  under  her  page's  vest! 
What  depth  of  love  in  her  passion  for  Orlando  !  whether  disguised 
beneath  a  saucy  playfulness,  or  breaking  forth  with  a  fond  impatience, 
or  half  betrayed  in  that  beautiful  scene  where  she  faints  at  the  sight 
of  his  'kerchief  stained  with  his  blood  !  Here  her  recovery  of  her 
self-possession — her  fears  lest  she  should  have  revealed  her  sex — her 
presence  of  mind,  and  quick-witted  excuse — 

I  pray  you,  tell  your  brother  how  well  I  counterfeited — 

and  the  characteristic  playfulness  which  seems  to  return  so  naturally 
with  her  recovered  senses, — are  all  as  amusing  as  consistent.  Then 
how  beautifully  is  the  dialogue  managed  between  herself  and  Orlando  ! 
how  well  she  assumes  the  airs  of  a  saucy  page,  without  throwing 
off  her  feminine  sweetness !  How  her  wut  flutters  free  as  air  over 
every  subject !  With  what  a  careless  grace,  yet  with  what  exquisite 
propriety  ! 

For  innocence  hath  a  privilege  in  her 
To  dignify  arch  jests  and  laughing  eyes. 


4*3  ROSALIND. 

And  if  the  freedom  of  some  of  the  expressions  used  by  Rosalind 
or  Beatrice  be  objected  to,  let  it  be  remembered  that  this  was  not 
the  fault  of  Shakspeare  or  the  women,  but  generally  of  the  age. 
Portia,  Beatrice,  Rosalind,  and  the  rest,  lived  in  times  when  more 
importance  was  attached  to  things  than  to  words ;  now  we  think 
more  of  words  than  of  things;  and  happy  are  we  in  these  later 
days  of  super-refinement,  if  we  are  to  be  saved  by  our  verbal  moralit}% 
But  this  is  meddling  with  the  province  of  the  melancholy  Jaques, 
and  our  argument  is  Rosalind. 

The  impression  left  upon  our  hearts  and  minds  by  the  character 
of  Rosalind — by  the  mixture  of  playfulness,  sensibility,  and  what  the 
French  (and  we  for  lack  of  a  better  expression)  call  naivete — is  like 
a  delicious  strain  of  music.  There  is  a  depth  of  delight,  and  a 
subtlety  of  words  to  express  that  delight,  which  is  enchanting.  Yet 
when  we  call  to  mind  particular  speeches  and  passages,  we  find  that 
they  have  a  relative  beauty  and  propriety,  which  renders  it  difficult 
to  separate  them  from  the  context  without  injuring  their  effect.  She 
says  some  of  the  most  charming  things  in  the  world,  and  some  of 
the  most  humorous :  but  we  apply  them  as  phrases  rather  than  as 
innxims,  and  remember  them  'rather  for  their  pointed  felicity  of 
expression  and  fanciful  application,  than  for  their  general  truth  and 
depth  of  meaning.     I  will  give  a  few  instances  :  — 

I  was  never  so  berhymed  since  Pythagoras'  time — that  I  was  an  Irish  rat — which 
I  can  hardly  remember* 

Good,  my  complexion  !  Dost  thou  think,  though  I  am  caparisoned  hke  a  man, 
that  I  have  a  doublet  and  hose  in  my  disposition  ? 

We  dwell  here  in  the  skirts  of  the  forest,  like  fringe  upon  a  petticoat. 

Love  is  merely  a  madness ;  and,  I  tell  you,  deserves  as  well  a  dark  house  and  a 
whip  as  madmen  do ;  and  the  reason  why  they  are  not  so  punished  and  cured  is,  that 
the  lunacy  is  so  ordinary  that  the  whippers  are  in  love  too. 

•  In  Shakspeare'3  time,  there  were  people  in  Ireland  (there  may  be  so  still,  for  aught 
I  know),  who  undertook  to  charm  rats  to  death,  by  chanting  certain  verses  which  acted 
as  a  spell.  "  Rhyme  them  to  death,  as  they  do  rats  in  Ireland,"  is  a  line  in  one  of  Ben 
Jonson's  comedies  ;  this  will  explain  Rosalind's  humorous  allusion. 


ROSALIND.  49 

A  traveller !  By  my  faith  you  have  great  reason  to  be  sad.  I  fear  you  have  sold 
your  own  lands  to  see  other  men's ;  then  to  have  seen  much  and  to  have  nothing 
is  to  have  rich  eyes  and  poor  hands. 

Farewell,  Monsieur  Traveller.  Look  you  lisp,  and  wear  strange  suits  ;  disable  all 
the  benefits  of  your  own  country  ;  be  out  of  love  with  your  nativity,  and  almost  chide 
God  for  making  you  that  countenance  you  are ;  or  I  will  scarce  think  you  have 
swam  in  a  gondola. 

Break  an  hour's  promise  in  love !  He  that  will  divide  a  minute  into  a  thousand 
parts,  and  break  but  a  part  of  the  thousandth  part  of  a  minute  in  the  alTairs  of  love, 
it  may  be  said  of  him  that  Cupid  hath  clapp'd  him  o'  the  shoulder,  but  I  warrant  him 
heart-whole. 

Men  have  died  from  time  to  time,  and  worms  have  eaten  them — but  not  for  love. 

I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  disgrace  my  man's  apparel,  and  to  cry  like  a  woman ; 
but  I  must  comfort  the  weaker  vessel,  as  doublet  and  hose  ought  to  show  itself 
courageous  to  petticoat. 

Rosalind  has  not  the  impressive  eloquence  of  Portia,  nor  the  sweet 
wisdom  of  Isabella.  Her  longest  speeches  are  not  her  best ;  nor  is 
her  taunting  address  to  Phebe,  beautiful  and  celebrated  as  it  is, 
equal  to  Phebe's  own  description  of  her.  The  latter,  indeed,  is  more 
in  earnest.* 

Celia  is  more  quiet  and  retired :  but  she  rather  yields  to  Rosalind, 
than  is  eclipsed  by  her  She  is  as  full  of  sweetness,  kindness,  and 
intelligence,  quite  as  susceptible,  and  almost  as  witty,  though  she 
makes  less  display  of  wit.  She  is  described  as  less  fair  and  less 
gifted ;  yet  the  attempt  to  excite  in  her  mind  a  jealousy  of  her 
lovelier  friend  by  placing  them  in  comparison — 

Thou  art  a  fool ;  she  robs  thee  of  thy  name ; 

And  thou  wilt  show  more  bright,  and  seem  more  virtuous, 

When  she  is  gone — 

*  Rousseau  could  describe  such  a  character  as  Rosalind,  but  failed  to  represent  it  con- 
sistently. "N'est-ce  pas  de  ton  cceur  que  viennent  les  graces  de  ton  enjouement  ?  Tes 
railleries  sont  des  signes  d'interet  plus  touchants  que  les  compliments  d'un  autre.  Tu 
caresses  quand  tu  folatres.  Tu  ris,  mais  ton  rire  pe'netre  Tame :  tu  ris,  mais  tu  fais 
pleurer  de  tendresse,  et  je  te  vois  presque  toujours  serieuse  avec  les  indiff^rents." — 
Jliloise  „ 


50  ROSALIND. 

fails  to  awaken  in  the  generous  heart  of  Celia  any  other  feeling 
than  an  increased  tenderness  and  sympathy  for  her  cousin.  To  Celia, 
Shakspeare  has  given  some  of  the  most  striking  and  animated  parts 
•)f  the  dialogue ;  and  in  particular,  that  exquisite  description  of  the 
friendship  between  her  and   Rosalind — 

If  slic  be  a  traitor, 
Why,  so  am  I  ;  we  have  still  slept  together, 
Rose  at  an  instant,  learned,  played,  eat  together, 
And  wheresoe'er  we  went,  like  Juno's  ssvans. 
Still  we  were  coupled  and  inseparable. 

The  feeling  of  interest  and  admiration  thus  excited  for  Celia  at 
the  first,  follows  her  through  the  whole  play.  We  listen  to  her  as 
to  one  who  has  made  herself  worthy  of  our  love ;  and  her  silence 
expresses  more  than  eloquence. 

Phehe  is  quite  an  Arcadian  coquette ;  she  is  a  piece  of  pastoral 
poetry.  Audrey  is  only  rustic.  A  very  amusing  effect  is  produced 
by  the  contrast  between  the  frank  and  free  bearing  of  the  two 
princesses  in  disguise,  and  the  scornful  airs  of  the  real  shepherdess. 
In  the  speeches  of  Phebe,  and  in  the  dialogue  between  her  and 
Sylvius,  Shakspeare  has  anticipated  all  the  beauties  of  the  Italian 
pastoral,  and  surpassed  Tasso  and  Guarini.  We  find  two  among  the 
most  poetical  passages  of  the  play  appropriated  to  Phebe;  the 
taunting  speech  to  Sylvius,  and  the  description  of  Rosalind  in  her 
page's  costume; — which  last  is  finer  than  the  portrait  of  Bathyllus  in 
Anacreon. 


CHARACTERS 


PASSION  AND  IMAGINATION. 


f 


^'"\ 


JULIET. 


0  Love!  thou  teacher— 0  Grief!  thou  tamer  -and  Time,  thou 
healer  of  human  hearts !— bring  hither  all  your  deep  and  serious 
revelations !— And  ye  too,  rich  fancies  of  unhruised,  unbowed  youth 
—ye  visions  of  long  perished  hopes —shadows  of  unborn  joys— gay 
colorings  of  the  dawn  of  existence !  whatever  memory  hath  treasured 
up  of  bright  and  beautiful  in  nature  or  in  art;  all  soft  and  delicate 
images— all  lovely  forms— divinest  voices  and  entrancing  melodies- 
gleams  of  sunnier  skies  and  fairer  climes— Italian  moonlights  and 
airs  that  "breathe  of  the  sweet  south,"— now,  if  it  be  possible, 
revive  to.  my  imagination— live  once  more  to  my  heart!  Come, 
thronging  around  me,  all  inspirations  that  wait  on  passion,  on  power, 
on  beauty ;  give  me  to  tread,  not  bold,  and  yet  unblamed,  within  the 
inmost  sanctuary  of  Shakspeare's  genius,  in  Juliet's  moonlight  bower, 
and  Miranda's  enchanted  isle  ! 

******** 

It  is  not  without  emotion,  that  I  attempt  to  touch  on  the  character 
of  Juliet.  Such  beautiful  things  have  already  been  said  of  her— only 
to  be  exceeded  in  beauty  by  the  subject  that  inspired  them !— it  is 
impossible  to  say  anything  better ;  but  it  is  possible  to  say  some- 
thing more.  Such  in  fact  is  the  simplicity,  the  truth,  and  the  loveliness 
of  Juliet's  character,  that  we  are  not  at  first  aware  of  its  complexity, 
its  depth,  and  its  variety.  There  is  in  it  an  intensity  of  passion,  a 
singleness  of  purpose,  an  entireness,  a  completeness  of  effect,  which 
we  feel  as  a  whole;  and  to  attempt  to  analyze  the  impression  thus 
conveyed  at  once  to  soul  and  sense,  is  as  if  while  hanging  over  a 
half-blown 'rose,  and  revelling  in  its  intoxicating  perfume,  we  should 
pull  it  asunder,  leaflet  by  leaflet,  the  better  to   display  its   bloom  ancj 


54  JULIET. 

fragrance.  Yet  how  otherwise  should  we  disclose  the  wonders  of  its 
formation,  or  do  justice  to  the  skill  of  the  divine  hand  that  hath  thus 
fashioned  it  in  its  beauty  ? 

Love,  as  a  passion,  forms  the  groundwork  of  the  drama.  Now, 
admitting  the  axiom  of  Rochefoucauld,  that  there  is  but  one  love, 
though  a  thousand  diiferent  copies,  yet  the  true  sentiment  itself  has 
as  many  different  aspects  as  the  hmnan  soul  of  which  it  forms  a 
part.  It  is  not  only  modified  by  the  individual  character  and 
temperament,  but  it  is  under  the  influence  of  climate  and  circumstance. 
The  love  that  is  calm  in  one  moment,  shall  show  itself  vehement  and 
tumultuous  at  another.  The  love  that  is  wuld  and  passionate  in  the 
south,  is  deep  and  contemplative  in  the  north;  as  the  Spanish  or 
Roman  girl  perhaps  poisons  a  rival,  or  stabs  herself  for  the  sake  of 
a  living  lover,  and  the  German  or  Russian  girl  pines  into  the  grave 
for  love  of  the  false,  the  absent,  or  the  dead.  Love  is  ardent  or 
deep,  bold  or  timid,  jealous  or  confiding,  impatient  or  humble, 
hopeful  or  desponding — and  yet  there  are  not  many  loves,  but  one 
love. 

All  Shakspeare's  women,  being  essentially  women,  either  love  or 
have  loved,  or  are  capable  of  loving ;  but  Juliet  is  love  itself.  The 
passion  is  her  state  of  being,  and  out  of  it  she  has  no  existence.  It 
is  the  soul  within  her  soul ;  the  pulse  within  her  heart ;  the  life-blood 
along  her  veins,  "  blending  with  every  atom  of  her  frame."  The 
love  that  is  so  chaste  and  dignified  in  Portia — so  airy-delicate  and 
fearless  in  Miranda — so  sweetly  confiding  in  Perdita — so  playfully 
fond  in  Rosalind— so  constant  in  Imogen — so  devoted  in  Desdemona 
— so  fervent  in  Helen — so  tender  in  Viola, — is  each  and  all  of  these 
in  Juliet.  All  these  remind  us  of  her ;  but  she  reminds  us  of  nothing 
but  her  own  sweet  self;  or  if  she  does,  it  is  of  the  Gismunda,  or  the 
Lisetta,  or  the  Fiammetta  of  Boccaccio,  to  whona  she  is  allied,  not 
in  the  character  or  circumstances,  but  in  the  truly  Italian  spirit 
the  glowing,  national  complexion  of  the  portrait."* 

*  Lord  Byron  remarked  of  the  Italian  women  (and  he  could  speak  avec  connaissance 
dcfait),  that  they  are  the  only  women  in  the  world  capable  of  impressions,  at  once  very 
sudden  and  very  durable;  which,  he  adds,  is  to  be  found  in  no  other'nation.  Mr. 
Moore  observes  afterwards,  how  completely  an  Italian  woman,  either  from  nature  or  her 
"ocial  position,  is  led  to  invert  the  usual  course  of  frailty  among  ourselves,  and,  weak 


JULIET.  55 

There  was  an  Italian  painter  who  said  that  the  secret  of  all  effect 
in  color  consisted  in  white  upon  black,  and  black  upon  white.  How 
perfectly  did  Shakspeare  understand  this  secret  of  effect!  and  how 
beautifully  he  has  exemplified  it  in  Juliet ! 

So  sliows  a  snowy  dove  trooping  with  crows, 
As  yonder  lady  o'er  her  fellows  shows  ! 

Thus  she  and  her  lover  are  in  contrast  with  all  around  them. 
They  are  all  love,  surrounded  with  all  hatej  all  harmony,  surrounded 
with  all  discord:  all  pure  nature,  in  the  midst  of  polished  and 
artificial  life.  Juliet,  like  Portia,  is  the  foster  child  of  opulence  and 
splendor ;  she  dwells  in  a  fair  city — she  has  been  nurtured  in  a  palace 
—she  clasps  her  robe  with  jewels — she  braids  her  hair  Avith  rainbow- 
tinted  pearls;  bat  in  herself  she  has  no  more  connection  with  the 
trappings  around  her,  than  the  lovely  exotic,  transplanted  from  some 
Eden-like  climate,  has  with  the  carved  and  gilded  conservatory  which 
has  reared  and  sheltered  its  luxuriant  beauty. 

But  in  this  vivid  impression  of  contrast,  there  is  nothing  abrupt 
or  harsh.  A  tissue  of  beautiful  poetry  weaves  together  the  principal 
figures,  and  the  subordinate  personages.  The  consistent  truth  of  the 
costume,  and  the  exquisite  gradations  of  relief  with  which  the  most 
opposite  hues  are  approximated,  blend  all  into  harmony.  Romeo  and 
Juliet  are  not  poetical  beings  placed  on  a  prosaic  back-ground ;  nor 
are  they,  like  Thekla  and  Max  in  the  Wallenstein,  two  angels  of 
light  amid  the  darkest  and  harshest,  the  most  debased  and  revolting 
aspects  of  humanity ;  but  every  circumstance,  and  every  personage, 
and  every  shade  of  character  in  each,  tends  to  the  development  of 
the  sentiment  which  is  the  subject  of  the  drama.  The  poetry,  too, 
the  richest  that  can  possibly  be  conceived,  is  interfused  through  all 
the  characters ;  the  splendid  imagery  lavished  upon  all  with  the 
careless  prodigality  of  genius;  and  the  whole  is  lighted  up  into  such 


in  resisting  the  first  impulses  of  passion,  to  reserve  the  whole  strength  of  her  character 
for  a  display  of  constancy  and  devotedness  afterwards. — Both  these  traits  of  national 
character  are  exemplified  in  Juliet. — Moore's  Life  of  Bi/mn,  vol.  ii.  pp.  30.3,  33S.  4to 
odit. 


56  JULIET. 

a  sunny  brilliance  of  efiect,  as  though  Shakspeare  had  really 
transported  himself  into  Italy,  and  had  drunk  to  intoxication  of  her 
genial  atmosphere.  How  truly  it  has  been  said,  that  "  although 
Romeo  and  Juliet  are  in  love,  they  are  not  love-sick ! "  What  a 
false  idea  \vould  anything  of  the  mere  whining  amoroso  give  us  of 
Romeo,  such  as  he  really  is  in  Shakspeare — the  noble,  gallant, 
ardent,  brave,  and  witty  !  And  Juliet — with  even  less  truth  could 
the  phrase  ar  idea  apply  to  her!  The  picture  in  "Twelfth  Night" 
of  the  wan  girl  dying  of  love,  '•  who  pined  in  thought,  and  with  a 
green  and  yellow  melancholy,"  would  never  surely  occur  to  us,  when 
thinking  on  the  enamored  and  impassioned  Juliet,  in  whose  bosom 
love  keeps  a  fiery  vigil,  kindling  tenderness  into  enthusiasm, 
enthusiasm  into  passion,  passion  into  heroism !  No,  the  whole 
sentiment  of  the  play  is  of  a  far  different  cast.  It  is  flushed  with 
the  genial  spirit  of  the  south :  it  tastes  of  youth,  and  of  the  essence 
of  youth ;  of  life,  and  of  the  very  sap  of  life.*  We  have  indeed 
the  struggle  of  love  against  evil  destinies,  and  a  thorny  world ;  the 
pain,  the  grief,  the  anguish,  the  terror,  the  despair ;  the  aching 
adieu ;  the  pang  miutterable  of  parted  affection ;  and  rapture,  truth, 
?:r]  tmierness  trampled  into  -an  early  grave:  but  still  an  Elysian 
grace  lingers  round  the  whole,  and  the  blue  sky  of  Italy  bends  over 
all! 

In  the  delineation  of  that  sentiment  which  forms  the  groundwork 
of  the  drama,  nothing  in  fact  can  equal  the  power  of  the  picture,  but 
its  inexpressible  sweetness  and  its  perfect  grace  :  the  passion  which 
has  taken  possession  of  Juliet's  soul,  has  the  force,  the  rapidity,  the 
resistless  violence  of  the  torrent  :  but  she  herself  as  "  moving 
delicate,"  as  fair,  as  soft,  as  flexible  as  the  willow  that  bends  over 
it,  whose  light  leaves  tremble  even  with  the  motion  of  the  current 
which  hurries  beneath  them.  But  at  the  same  time  that  the 
pervading  sentiment  is  never  lost  sight  of,  and  is  one  and  the  same 
throughout,  the  individual  part  of  the  character  in  all  its  variety  is 
developed,  and  marked  with  the  nicest  discrimination.  For  instance, 
— the  simplicity  of  Juliet  is  very  different  from  the  simplicity  of 
Miranda  :   her   innocence    is   not    the    innocence    of   a    desert    island. 

'La  aive  de  la  vie,  is  an  expression  used  somewhere  by  Madame  de  Stael 


JULIET.  57 

The  energy  she  displays  does  not  once  remind  us  of  the  moral 
grandeur  of  Isabel,  or  the  intellectual  power  of  Portia  ; — it  is 
founded  in  the  strength  of  passion,  not  in  the  strength  of  character  : 
— it  is  accidental  rather  than  inherent,  rising  with  the  tide  of  feeling 
or  temper,  and  with  it  subsiding.  Her  romance  is  not  the  pastoral 
romance  of  Perdita,  nor  the  fanciful  romance  of  Viola  ;  it  is  the 
romance  of  a  tender  heart  and  a  poetical  imagination.  Her  inexperience 
is  not  ignorance  :  she  has  heard  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
falsehood,  though  she  can  scarcely  conceive  it.  Her  mother  and  her 
nurse  have  perhaps  warned  her  against  flattering  vows  and  man's 
inconstancy  ;  or  she  has  even 

Turned  the  tale  by  Ariosto  told, 

Of  fair  Olympia,  loved  and  left,  of  old  ! 

Hence  that  bashful  doubt,  dispelled  almost  as  soon  as  felt — 

Ah,  gentle  Romeo  ! 
If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully. 

That  conscious  shrinking  from  her  own  confession — 

Fain  would  I  dwell  on  form  ;  fain,  fain  deny 
What  I  have  spoke  ! 

The  ingenuous  simplicity  of  her  avowal — 

Or  if  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 

I'll  frown,  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay, 

So  thou  wilt  woo — but  else,  not  for  the  world  ! 

In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I  am  too  fond, 

And  therefore  thou  may'st  think  my  'havior   light, 

But  trust  mc,  gentleman,  I'll  prove  more  true 

Than  those  who  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange. 

And  the  proud  yet  timid    delicacy,  with  which  she  throws  herself  for 

forbearance  and  pardon  upon  the  tenderness   of  him  she   loves,  even 

for  the  love  she  bears  him — 

8 


58  JULIET. 

Therefore  pardon  me, 
And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  hght  love, 
Which  the  dark  night  hath  so  discovered. 

In  the  alternative,  which  she  afterwards  places  before  her  lover  with 
such  a  charming  mixture  of  conscious  delicacy  and  girlish  simplicity, 
there  is  that  jealousy  of  female  honor  which  precept  and  education 
have  infused  into  her  mind,  without  one  real  doubt  of  his  truth,  or 
the  slightest  hesitation  in  her  self-abandonment  :  for  she  does  not 
even  wait  to  hear  his  asseverations — 

But  if  thou  meanest  not  well,  I  do  beseech  thee 
To  cease  thy  suit,  and  leave  me  to  my  grief. 

ROMEO. 

So  thrive  my  soul 

JULIET. 

A  thousand  times,  good  night  ! 

But  all  these  flutterings  between  native  impulses  and  maiden  fears 
become  gradually  absorbed,  swept  away,  lost,  and  swallowed  up  in 
the  depth  and  enthusiasm  of  confiding  love. 

My  bounty  is  as  boundless  as  the  sea. 
My  love  as  deep  ;  the  more  I  give  to  you 
The  more  I  have — for  both  are  infinile ! 

What  a  picture  of  the  young  heart,  that  sees  no  bound  to  its 
hopes,  no  end  to  its  affections  !  For  "  what  was  to  hinder  the 
thrilling  tide  of  pleasure  which  had  just  gushed  from  her  heart,  from 
flowing  on  without  stint  or  measure,  but  experience,  which  she  was 
yet  without  ?  What  was  to  abate  the  transport  of  the  first  sweet 
sense  of  pleasure  which  her  heart  had  just  tasted,  but  indifference,  to 
which  she  was  yet  a  stranger  1  What  was  there  to  check  the  ardor 
of  hope,  of  faith,  of  constancy,  just  rising  in  her  breast,  but 
disappointment  which  she  had  never  yet  felt  7 "  * 

*  Characters  of  Shakspeare's  Plays. 


JULIET.  59 

Lord  Byron's  Haid'e  is  a  copy  of  Juliet  in  the  Oriental  costume, 
but  the  development  is  epic,  not  dramatic* 

I  remember  no  dramatic  character,  conveying  the  same  impression 
of  singleness  of  purpose,  and  devotion  of  heart  and  soul,  except  the 
Thekla  of  Schiller's  Wallenstein ;  she  is  the  German  Juliet ;  far 
unequal,  indeed,  but  conceived,  nevertheless,  in  a  kindred  spirit.  I 
know  not  if  critics  have  ever  compared  them,  or  whether  Schiller  is 
supposed  to  have  had  the  English,  or  rather  the  Italian,  Juliet  in  his 
fancy  when  he  portrayed  Thekla ;  but  there  are  some  strikino- 
points  of  coincidence,  while  the  national  distinction  in  the  character 
of  the  passion  leaves  to  Thekla  a  strong  cast  of  originality.f  The 
Princess  Thekla  is,  like  Juliet,  the  heiress  of  rank  and  opulence  ; 
her  first  introduction  to  us,  in  her  full  dress  and  diamonds,  does  not 
imipair  the  impression  of  her  softness  and  simplicity.  We  do  not 
think  of  them,  nor  do  we  sympathize  with  the  complaint  of  her 
lover, — 


*  I  must  allude,  but  with  reluctance,  to  another  character,  which  I  have  heard 
likened  to  Juliet,  and  often  quoted  as  the  heroine  fjar  excellence  of  amatory  fiction — I 
mean  the  Julie  of  Rousseau's  Nouvelle  Heloise  ;  I  protest  against  her  altogether.  As  a 
creation  of  fancy  the  portrait  is  a  compound  of  the  most  gross  and  glaring 
inconsistencies  ;  as  false  and  impossible  to  the  reflecting  and  philosophical  mind,  as 
the  fabled  Syrens,  Hamadryads  and  Centaurs  to  the  eye  of  the  anatomist.  As  a  woman, 
Julie  belongs  neither  to  nature,  nor  to  artificial  society  ;  and  if  the  pages  of  melting 
and  dazzling  eloquence  in  which  Rousseau  has  garnished  out  his  idol  did  not  blind  and 
intoxicate  us,  as  the  incense  and  the  garlands  did  the  votaries  of  Isis,  we  should  bs 
disgusted.  Rousseau,  having  composed  his  Julie  of  the  commonest  clay  of  the  earth, 
does  not  animate  her  with  fire  from  heaven,  but  breathes  his  own  spirit  into  her,  and 
then  calls  the  "  impetticoated"  paradox  a  woman.  He  makes  her  a  peg  on  which  to 
hang  his  own  visions  and  sentiments — and  what  sentiments  !  but  that  I  fear  to  soil  my 
pages,  I  would  pick  out  a  few  of  them,  and  show  the  difference  between  this  strange 
combination  of  youth  and  innocence,  philosophy  and  pedantry,  sophistical  prudery 
and  detestable  grossiereU,  and  our  own  Juliet.  No  !  if  we  seek  a  French  Juliet,  we 
must  go  far— far  back  to  the  real  Heloise,  to  her  eloquence,  her  sensibility,  her  fervor 
of  passion,  her  devotedness  of  truth.  She,  at  least,  married  the  man  she  loved,  and 
loved  the  man  she  married,  and  more  than  died  for  him  ;  but  enougli  of  both. 

f  B.  Constant  describes  her  beautifully — "  Sa  voix  si  douce  au  travers  lo  bruit  des 
armes,  sa  forme  delicate  au  milieu  de  cos  hommes  tous  couvcrts  do  fer,  la  purete  de 
eon  ame  opposee  a  leurs  calculs  avides,  son  calme  celeste  qui  contraste  avec  leui'S 
agitations,  remplissent  le  spectateur  d'une  emotion  constantc  et  melancolique,  telle 
que  ne  la  fait  ressentir  nuUe  tragedie  ordinaire." 


60  JULIET. 

The  dazzle  of  the  jewels  which  played  round  you 
Hid  the  beloved  frorr  me. 

We  almost  feel  the  reply  of  Thekla  before  she  utters  it, — 

Then  you  saw  me 
Not  with  your  heart,  but  with  your  eyes  ! 

The  timidity  of  Thekla  in  her  first  scene,  her  trembling  silence  in 
the  commencement,  and  the  few  words  she  addresses  to  her  mother, 
remind  us  of  the  unobtrusive  simplicity  of  Juliet's  first  appearance  ; 
but  the  impression  is  different  :  the  one  is  the  shrinking  violet,  the 
other  the  unexpanded  rose-bud.  Thekla  and  Max  Piccolomini  are,  like 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  divided  by  the  hatred  of  their  fathers.  The  death 
of  Max,  and  the  resolute  despair  of  Thekla,  are  also  points  of 
resemblance  ;  and  Thekla's  complete  devotion,  her  frank,  yet  dignified 
abandonment  of  all  disguise,  and  her  apology  for  her  own  unreserve, 
are  cuite  in  Juliet's  style, — 

I  ought  to  be  less  open,  ought  to  hide 
My  heart  more  from  thee — so  decorum  dictates  : 
But  where  in  tliis  place  wouldst  thou  seek  for  truth, 
If  in  my  mouth  thou  didst  not  find  it  ? 

The  same  confidence,  innocence,  and  fervor  of  aflfection,  distinguish 
both  heroines  ;  but  the  love  of  Juliet  is  more  vehement,  the  love  of 
Thekla  is  more  calm,  and  reposes  more  on  itself;  the  love  of  Juliet 
gives  us  the  idea  of  infinitude,  and  that  of  Thekla  of  eternity  :  the 
love  of  Juliet  flo\vs  on  with  an  increasing  tide,  like  the  river  pouring 
to  the  ocean ;  and  the  love  of  Thekla  stands  unalterable,  and 
enduring  as  the  rock.  In  the  heart  of  Thekla  love  shelters  as  in 
a  home  ;  but  in  the  heart  of  Juliet  he  reigns  a  crowned  king, — "  he 
rides  on  its  pants  triumphant  I"  As  women,  they  would  divide  the 
loves  and  suffrages  of  mankind,  but  not  as  dramatic  characters  :  the 
moment  we  come  to  look  nearer  we  acknowledge  that  it  is  indeed 
"  rashness    and  ignorance    to    compare  Schiller    with    Shakspeare."  * 

"  Coleridge— preface  to  Wallenstein. 


JULIET.  61 

Thekla  is   a  fine  conception  in  the  German  spirit,   but  Juliet   is    a 
lovely  and  palpable  creation.     The    coloring   in    which   Schiller  has 
arrayed  his  Thekla  is  pale,  sombre,  vague,  compared  with  the  strong 
individual    marking,    the    rich     glow    of    life    and    reality,    which 
distinguish  Juliet.     One  contrast  in  particular  has  always  struck  me  : 
the  two  beautiful   speeches   in  the  first  interview  between  Max  and 
Thekla,  that  in  which  she  describes  her  father's  astrological  chamber, 
and  that   in    which    he   replies  with  reflections   on   the   influence    of 
the   stars,   are  said  to    "  form   in  themselves   a  line  poem."      They 
do    so ;   but    never  would   Shakspeare   have   placed   such  extraneous 
description  and  reflection   in   the   mouths  of  his   lovers.      Romeo  and 
Juliet   speak    of  themselves  only  ;  they    see  only  themselves   in  the 
universe,  all  things  else   are  as   an   idle  matter.      Not  a  word  they 
utter,   though  every  word   is  poetry — not  a  sentiment    or    description, 
though    dressed   in    the    most   luxuriant    imagery,    but    has    a   direct 
relation  to  themselves,  or  to  the  situation  in  which   they  are  placed, 
and  the  feelings  that  engross  them  :  and  besides,  it  may  be  remarked  of 
Thekla,  and  generally  of  all  tragedy  heroines   in   love,  that,  however 
beautifully  and  distinctly  characterized,  we  see  the  passion  only  under 
one  or  two  aspects  at  most,  or  in  conflict  with  some  one  circumstance  or 
contending    duty   or   feeling.      In  Juliet   alone   we   find    it    exhibited 
under    every  variety    of  aspect,    and   every    gradation    of   feeling    it 
could  possibly    assume  in   a  delicate  female    heart  :    as  we    see    the 
rose,  when  passed  through  the  colors  of  the  prism,  catch  and  reflect 
every  tint  of  the   divided  ray,  and  still  it  is  the  same  sweet  rose. 

I  have  already  remarked  the  quiet  manner  in  which  Juliet  steals 
upon  us  in  her  first  scene,  as  the  serene,  graceful  girl,  her  feelings  as 
yet  unawakened,  and  her  energies  all  unknown  to  herself,  and 
unsuspected  by  others.  Her  silence  and  her  filial  deference  are 
charming  : — 

I'll  look  to  like,  if  looking  likinw  move  : 
But  no  more  deep  will  I  endart  mine  eye, 
Then  your  consent  shall  {rive  it  strength  to  fly. 

Much  in  the  same  unconscious  way  we  are  impressed  with  an  idea 
of  her  excelling  loveliness  : — 


62  JULIET. 

Beauty  too  rich  for  use,  for  earth  too  dear  ! 

and  which  could  make  the  dark  vault  of  death  "  a  feasting  presence 
full  of  light."  Without  any  elaborate  description,  we  behold  Juliet, 
as  she  is  reflected  in  the  heart  of  her  lover,  like  a  sinfjle  bright 
star  mirrored  in  the  bosom  of  a  deep,  transparent  well.  The  rapture 
with  which  he  dwells  on  the  "  white  wonder  of  her  hand  ;"  on  her 
lips, 

That  even  in  puro  and  vestal  modesty 

Still  blushj  as  thinking  their  own  kisses  sin. 

And  then  her  eyes,  "  two  of  the  fairest  stars  in  all  the  heavens !  " 
Fn  his  exclamation  in  the  sepulchre. 

Ah,  dear  Juliet,  why  art  thou  yet  so  fair! 

there    is  life    and    death,    beauty    and    horror,    rapture    and    anguish 
combined.     The  Friar's  description  of  her  approach, 

O,  so  light  a  step 
Will  ne'er  wear  out  the  everlasting  flint ! 

and  then  her  father's  similitude, 

Death  lies  on  her  like  an  untimely  frost 
Upon  the  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  field ; — 

all  these    mingle    into    a   beautiful   picture  of  youthful,  airy,  delicate 
grace,  feminine  sweetness  and  patrician  elegance. 

And  our  impression  of  Juliet's  loveliness  and  sensibility  is  enhanced, 
when  we  find  it  overcoming  in  the  bosom  of  Romeo  a  previous  love 
for  another.  His  visionary  passion  for  the  cold,  inaccessible 
Rosaline,  forms  but  the  prologue,  the  threshold,  to  the  true — the  real 
sentiment  which  succeeds  to  it.  This  incident,  which  is  found  in  the 
original  story,  has  been  retained  by  Shakspearc  with  equal  feeling 
and  judgment ;  and  far  from  being  a  fault  in  taste  and  sentiment,  far 
from  prejudicing  us  against  Romeo,  by  casting  on  him.  at  the    outset 


JULIET.  63 

of   the    piece,,  the    stigma    of   inconstancy,    it    becomes,    if  properly 

considered,  a  beauty  in  the  drama,  and  adds    a    fresh    stroke  of  truth 

to  the  portrait  of  the  lover.     Wliy,  after  all,  should  we    be    ofiended 

at  what  does  not  offend  Juliet  herself?  for  in    the    original   story  we 

find  that    her   attention    is    first    attracted    towards    Romeo,  by  seeino- 

him  "  fancy  sick    and    pale    of    cheer,"  for    love    of   a    cold    beauty. 

We  must  remember  that  in  those    times   every  young  cavalier  of  any 

distinction  devoted  himself,  at  his  first  entrance  into  the  world,  to  the 

service  of  some  fair  lady,  who  was  selected  to  be  his  fancy's  queen ; 

and  the  more  rigorous  the    beauty,  and    the  more   hopeless    the   love, 

the  more  honorable  the  slavery.     To  go  about  "metamorphosed  by  a 

mistress,"    as     Speed     humorously     expresses    it,* — to    maintain    her 

supremacy  in  charms    at    the    sword's  point  j    to  sigh  ;    to  walk  with 

folded    arms ;    to    be    negligent    and    melancholy,    and    to     show    a 

careless   desolation,   was    the  fashion   of  the    day.     The   Surreys,  the 

Sydneys,  the  Bayards,  the  Herberts   of  the  time — all  those  who  were 

the  mirrors  "  in  which   the   noble  youth  did    dress  themselves,"  were 

of  this  fantastic  school  of  gallantry — the  last   remains   of  the  age  of 

chivalry ;  and  it  was    especially  prevalent  in    Italy.     Shakspeare    has 

ridiculed  it  in  many  places  with  exquisite  humor ;  but    he  wished    to 

show  us  that  it  has  its  serious  as  well   as   its  comic  aspect.     Romeo, 

then,  is  introduced  to  us  with  perfect  truth    of   costmne,  as  the  thrall 

of  a  dreaming,  fanciful    passion   for   the    scornful  Rosaline,  who  had 

forsworn  to  love ;  and  on  her  charms  and  coldness,  and  on  the  power 

of  love  generally,  he  descants  to    his  companions   in   pretty  phrases, 

quite  in  the  style  and  taste  of  the  day.f 

•  In  the  "  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona." 

t  There  is  an  allusion  to  this  ceurt  language   of   love   in  "  All's  Well  that   Ends 
Well '   where  Helena  says, 

There  shall  your  master  have  a  thousand  loves^ 

A  guide,  a  goddess,  and  a  sovereign; 

A  counsellor,  a  traitress,  and  a  dear. 

His  humble  ambition,  proud  humility, 

His  jarring  concord,  and  his  discord  dulcet. 

His  faith,  his  sweet  disaster,  with   a  world 

Of  pretty  fond  adoptious  Christendoms 

That  blinking  Cupid  gossips.— Act  j..  Scene  1. 


C4  J  L;  L  I  E  T  . 

Why  then,  O  brawling  love,  O  loving  hate 
O  anything,  of  nothing  first  create  ! 
O  heavy  lightness,  serious  vanity, 
Mis-shapen  chaos  of  well-seeming  forms  ! 

Love  is  a  smoke  raised  with  the  fume  of  sighs  ; 
Being  purg'd,  a  fire  sparkling  in  lovers'  eyes ; 
Being  vex'd,  a  sea  nourish'd  with  lovers'  tears. 

But  when  once  he  has  beheld  Juliet,  and  quaffed  intoxicating 
draughts  of  hope  and  love  from  her  soft  glance,  how  all  these  airy 
fancies  fade  before  the  soul-absorbing  reality  !  The  lambent  fire  that 
played  round  his  heart,  burns  to  that  heart's  very  core.  We  no 
longer  find  him  adorning  his  lamentations  in  picked  phrases,  or 
making  a  confidant  of  his  gay  companions :  he  is  no  longer  "  for 
the  numbers  that  Petrarch  flowed  in ; "  but  all  is  concentrated,  earnest, 
rapturous,  in  the  feeling  and  the  expression.  Compare,  for  instance, 
the  sparkling  antithetical  passages  just  quoted,  with  one  or  two  of 
his  passionate  speeches  to  or  of  Juliet : — 

Heaven  is  here, 
Where  Juliet  lives  !  &c. 

Ah  Juliet !  if  the  measure  of  thy  joy 
Be  heaped  like  mine,  and  that  thy  skill  be  more 
To  blazon  it,  then  sweeten  with  thy  breath 
This  neighbor  air,  and  let  rich  music's  tongue 
Unfold  the  imagin'd  happiness,  that  both 
Receive  in  either  by  this  dear  encounter. 

Come  what  sorrow  may. 

It  cannot  countervail  the  exchange  of  joy  / 

That  one  short  minute  gives  me  in  her  sight. 

How  different !  and  how  finely  the  distinction  is  drawni !     His  first 
passion  is  indulged  as  a  waking  dream,  a  reverie  of  the  fancy ;  it  is 

The  courtly  poets  of  Elizabeth's  time,  who  copied  the  Italian  sonnetteets  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  are  full  of  these  quaint  conceits. 


JULIET.  65 

depressinor,  indolent,  fantastic;  his  second  elevates  him  to  the  third 
heaven,  or  hurries  him  to  despair.  It  rushes  to  its  object  through 
all  impediments,  defies  all  dangers,  and  seeks  at  last  a  triumphant 
grave,  in  the  arms  of  her  he  so  loved.  Thus  Romeo's  previous 
attachment  to  Rosaline  is  so  contrived  as  to  exhibit  to  us  another 
variety  in  that  passion  which  is  the  subject  of  the  poem,  by  showing 
us  the  distinction  between  the  fancied  and  the  real  sentiment.  It 
adds  a  deeper  effect  to  the  beauty  of  Juliet;  it  interests  us  in  the 
commencement  for  the  tender  and  romantic  Romeo ;  and  gives  an 
individual  reality  to  his  character,  by  stamping  him  like  a  historical, 
as  well  as  a  dramatic  portrait,  with  the  very  spirit  of  the  age  in 
which  he  lived.* 

It  may  be  remarked  of  Juliet  as  of  Portia,  that  we  not  only  trace 
the  component  qualities  in  each  as  they  expand  before  us  in  the 
course  of  the  action,  but  we  seem  to  have  known  them  previously, 
and  mingle  a  consciousness  of  their  past,  with  the  interest  of  their 
present  and  their  future.  Thus,  in  the  dialogue  between  Juliet  and 
her  parents,  and  in  the  scenes  with  the  Nurse,  we  seem  to  have 
before  us  the  whole  of  her  previous  education  and  habits  :  we  see 
her,  on  the  one  hand,  kept  in  severe  subjection  by  her  austere 
parents;  and  on  the  other,  fon:l]e:l  and  spoiled  by  a  foolish  old 
nurse — a  situation  perfectly  accordant  with  the  manners  of  the  time. 
Then  Lady  Capulet  comes  sweeping  by  with  her  train  of  velvet,  her 
black  hood,  her  fan,  anl  her  rosary — the  very  bmu-idral  of  a  proud 
Italian  matron  of  the  fifteenth  century,  whose  offer  to  poison  Romeo 
in  reven'xe  for  the  death  of  Tybalt,  stamps  her  with  one  very 
characteristic  trait  of  the  age  and  country.  Yet  she  loves  her 
dau2:hter ;  and  there  is  a  touch  of  remorseful  tenderness  in  her 
lamentation  over  her  which  adds  to  our  impression  of  the  timid 
softness  of  Juliet,  and  the  harsh  subjection  in  which  she  has  been 
kept  : — 

But  ono,  poor  onn  I — one  poor  and  lovinjr  child, 

But  ono  tliintj  to  rojoiro  and  solaco  in, 

And  cruel  death  hath  catchod  it  from  my  siglit ! 

•Since  this  was  written,  I  have  met  with  some  romarlcs  of  a  similar  tendency  in  that 
most  interestinK  book,  "  The  Life  of  Lord  E.  Fitzgerald." 

9 


06  JULIET. 

Capulet,  as  the  jovial,  testy  old  man,  the  self-willed  violent, 
tj'rannical  father, — to  whom  his  daughter  is  but  a  property,  the 
appanage  of  his  house,  and  the  object  of  his  pride, — is  equal  as  a 
portrait :  but  both  must  yield  to  the  Nurse,  who  is  drawn  with  the 
most  wonderful  power  and  discrimination.  In  the  prosaic  homeliness 
of  the  outline,  and  the  magical  illusion  of  the  coloring,  she  reminds 
us  of  some  of  the  marvellous  Dutch  paintings,  from  which,  with  all 
their  coarseness,  we  start  back  as  from  a  reality.  Her  low  humor, 
her  shallow  garrulity,  mixed  with  the  dotage  and  petulance  of  age — 
her  subserviency,  her  secresy,  and  her  total  want  of  elevated 
principle,  or  even  common  honesty — are  brought  before  us  like  a 
living  and  palpable  truth. 

Among  these  harsh  and  inferior  spirits  is  Juliet  placed  ;  her  haughty 
parents,  and  her  plebeian  nurse,  not  only  throw  into  beautiful  relief 
her  own  native  softness  and  elegance,  but  are  at  once  the  cause  and 
the  excuse  of  her  subsequent  conduct.  She  trembles  before  her  stern 
mother  and  her  violent  father  :  but,  like  a  petted  child,  alternately 
cajoles  and  commands  her  nurse.  It  is  her  old  foster-mother  who  is 
the  confidante  of  her  love.  It  is  the  woman  who  cherished  her 
infancy,  who  aids  and  abets  .her  in  her  clandestine  marriage.  Do  we 
not  perceive  how  immediately  our  impression  of  Juliet's  character 
would  have  been  lowered,  if  Shakspeare  had  placed  her  in 
connexion  with  any  common-place  dramatic  waiting-woman  ? — even 
with  Portia's  adroit  Nerissa,  or  Desdemona's  Emilia  ?  By  giving  hei 
the  Nurse  for  her  confidante,  the  sweetness  and  dignity  of  Juliet's 
character  are  preserved  inviolate  to  the  fancy,  even  in  the  midst  of 
all  the  romance  and  wilfulness  of  passion. 

The  natural  result  of  these  extremes  of  subjection  and  independence 
is  exhibited  in  the  character  of  Juliet,  as  it  gradually  opens  upon  us. 
We  behold  it  in  the  mixture  of  self-will  and  timidity,  of  strength  and 
weakness,  of  confidence  and  reserve,  which  are  developed  as  the 
action  of  the  play  proceeds.  AVe  see  it  in  the  fond  eagerness  of 
the  indulged  girl,  for  whose  impatience  the  "  nimblest  of  the 
lightning-winged  loves "  had  been  too  slow  a  messenger  ;  in  her 
petulance  with  her  nurse  ;  in  those  bursts  of  vehement  feeling, 
which  prepare  us  for  the  climax  of  passion  at  the  catastrophe  ;  in 
her  invectives  against  Romto,  when  she  hears  of  the  death  of  Tybalt  ; 


JULIET.  67 


in  her  indignation  when  the    nurse  echoes   those   reproaches,  and   the 
rising  of  her  temper  against  unwonted  contradiction  : — 


NURSE. 

Shame  come  to  Romeo  ! 


Blister'd  be  thy  tongue, 
For  such  a  wisli  !  he  was  not  born  to  shame. 

Then  comes  that  revulsion  of  strong  feeling,  that  burst  of  magnificent 
exultation  in  the  virtue  and  honor  of  her  lover  : — 

Upon  his  brow  Shame  is  asham'd  to  sit, 

For  'tis  a  throne  where  Honor  may  be  crown'd 

Sole  monarch  of  the  universal  earth  ! 

And  this,  bv  one  of  those  quick  transitions  of  feelin":  w^hich  belono- 
to  the  character,  is  immediately  succeeded  by  a  gush  of  tenderness 
and  self-reproach — 

Ah,  poor  my  lord,  what  tongue  shall  smooth  thy  name, 
When  I,  thy  three-liours'  wife,  have  mangled  it  ? 

With  the  same  admirable  truth  of  nature,  Juliet  is  represented  as 
at  first  bewildered  by  the  fearful  destiny  that  closes  round  her ; 
reverse  is  new  and  terrible  to  one  nursed  in  the  lap  of  luxury, 
and  whose  energies  are  yet  untried. 

Alack,  alack,  that  heaven  should  practise  stratagems 
Upon  so  soft  a  subject  as  myself. 

While  a  stay  yet   remains    to   her  amid    the    evils   that   encompass 
her,  she  clings  to  it.     She  appeals  to  her  father — to  her  mother- 
Good  father,  I  beseech  you  on  my  knees, 
Hear  me  witli  patience  but  to  speak  one  word ! 


68  JULIET. 

Ah,  sweet  my  mother,  cast  me  not  away ! 
Delay  this  marriage  for  a  month, — a  week  ! 

And  rejected  Iby  both,  she  throws  herself  upon  her  nurse  in  all 
the  helplessness  of  anguish,  of  confiding  affection,  of  habitual 
dependence — 

O  God  !  O  nurse  !  how  shall  tills  be  prevented  ? 
Some  comfort,  nurse  ! 

The  old  woman,  true  to  her  vocation,  and  fearful  lest  her  share  in 
these  events  should  be  discovered,  counsels  her  to  forget  Romeo  and 
marry  Paris  ;  and  the  moment  which  unveils  to  Juliet  the  weakness 
and  the  baseness  of  her  confidante,  is  the  moment  which  reveals  her  to 
herself.  She  does  not  break  into  upbraidings;  it  is  no  moment  for 
anger ;  it  is  incredulous  amazement,  succeeded  by  the  extremity  of 
scorn  and  abhorrence,  which  take  possession  of  her  mind.  She 
assumes  at  once  and  asserts  all  her  own  superiority,  and  rises  to 
majesty  in  the  strength  of  her  despair. 

JULIET. 

Speakest  thou  from  thy  heart  ? 


Aye,  and  from  my  soul  too; — or  else 
Beshrew  them  both ! 

JULIET. 

Amen  ! 
This  final  severing  of  all  the  old  familiar  ties  of  her  childhood — 

Go,  counsellor ! 
Thou  and  my  bosom  hencefortli  sliall  be  twain  ? 

and  the  calm,  concentrated  force  of  her  resolve, 

If  all  else  fail, — myself  have  power  to  die. 


JULIET.  69 

have  a  sublime  pathos.  It  appears  to  me  also  an  admirable  touch 
of  nature,  considering  the  master  passion  which,  at  this  moment 
rules  in  Juliet's  soul,  that  she  is  as  much  shocked  by  the  nurse's 
dispraise  of  her  lover,  as  by  her  wicked,  time-serving  advice. 

This  scene  is  the  crisis  in  the  character  ;  and  henceforth  we  see 
Juliet  assume  a  new  aspect.  The  fond,  impatient,  timid  girl,  puts  on 
the  wife  and  the  woman :  she  has  learned  heroism  from  suffering, 
and  subtlety  from  oppression.  It  is  idle  to  criticise  her  dissembling 
submission  to  her  father  and  mother;  a  higher  duty  has  taken  place 
of  that  which  she  owed  to  them ;  a  more  sacred  tie  has  severed  all 
others.  Her  parents  are  pictured  as  they  are,  that  no  feeling  for 
them  may  interfere  in  the  slightest  degree  with  our  sympathy  for 
the  lovers.  In  the  mind  of  Juliet  there  is  no  strusi;o;le  between  her 
filial  and  her  conjugal  duties,  and  there  ought  to  be  none.  The 
Friar,  her  spiritual  director,  dismisses    her  with   these    instructions : — 

Go  home, — be  merry, — give  consent 
To  marry  Paris ; 

and  she  obeys  him.  Death  and  suffering  in  every  horrid  form  she  is 
ready  to  brave,  without  fear  or  doubt,  "  to  live  an  unstained  wife : " 
and  the  artifice  to  which  she  has  recourse,  which  she  is  even 
instructed  to  use,  in  no  respect  impairs  the  beauty  of  the  character ; 
we  regard  it  with  pain  and  pity ;  but  excuse  it,  as  the  natural  and 
inevitable  consequence  of  the  situation  in  which  she  is  placed.  Nor 
should  we  forget,  that  the  dissimulation,  as  well  as  the  courage  of 
Juliet,  though  they  spring  from  passion,  are  justified   by  principle  : — 

My  husband  is  on  earth,  my  faith  in  heaven : 
How  sliall  my  faith  return  again  to  earth. 
Unless  that  liusband  send  it  me  from  heaven  ? 

In  her  successive  appeals  to  her  father,  her  mother,  her  nurse,  and 
ihe  Friar,  she  seeks  those  remedies  which  would  first  su<rfrest 
themselves  to  i  gentle  and  virtuoua  nature,  and  grasps  her  dagger 
only  as  the  last  resource  against  dishonor  and  violated  faith; — 


70  JULIET. 

God  join'd  my  licart  with  Romeo's, — tliou  our  hands. 

And  ere  tliis  liand,  by  thee  to  Romeo  seaFd, 

Sliall  he  the  label  to  another  deed, 

Or  my  true  heart,  with  treacherous  revolt 

Turn  to  another, — this  shall  slay  them  both  ! 


Thus,  in  the  very  tempest  and  whirlwind  of  passion  and  terror, 
preserving,  to  a  certain  degree,  that  moral  and  feminine  dignity 
which  harmonizes  with  our  best  feelings,  and  commands  our 
unrep  roved  sympathy. 

I  reserve  my  remarks  on  the  catastrophe,  which  demands  separate 
consideration;  and  return  to  trace  from  the  opening,  another  and 
distino-uishin":  trait  in  Juliet's  character. 

In  the  extreme  vivacity  of  her  imagination,  and  its  influence  upon 
the  action,  the  language,  the  sentiments  of  the  drama,  Juliet 
resembles  Portia;  but  with  this  striking  difference.  In  Portia,  the 
imaginative  power,  though  developed  in  a  high  degree,  is  so  equally 
blended  with  the  other  intellectual  and  moral  faculties,  that  it  does 
not  give  us  the  idea  of  excess.  It  is  subject  to  her  nobler  reason ; 
it  adorns  and  heightens  all  her  feelings ;  it  does  not  overwhelm  or 
mislead  them.  In  Juliet,  it  is  rather  a  part  of  her  southern 
temperament,  controlling  and  modifying  the  rest  of  her  character ; 
springing  from  her  sensibility,  hurried  along  by  her  passions, 
animating  her  joys,  darkening  her  sorrows,  exaggerating  her  terrors, 
and,  in  the  end,  overpowering  her  reason.  With  Juliet,  imagination 
is,  in  the  first  instance,  if  not  the  source,  the  medium  of  passion; 
and  passion  again  kindles  her  imagination.  It  is  through  the  power 
of  imagination  that  the  eloquence  of  Juliet  is  so  vividly  poetical ; 
that  every  feeling,  every  sentiment  comes  to  her,  clothed  in  the 
richest  imagery,  and  is  thus  reflected  from  her  mind  to  ours.  The 
poetry  is  not  here  the  mere  adornment,  the  outward  garnishing  of 
the  character;  but  its  result,  or  rather  blended  with  its  essence.  It 
is  indivisible  from  it,  and  interfused  through  it  like  moonlight 
through  the  summer  air.  To  particularize  is  almost  impossible, 
since  the  whole  of  the  dialogue  appropriated  to  Juliet  is  one  rich 
stream  of  imagery :  she  speaks  in  pictures ;  and  sometimes  they  are 
crowded  one  upon  another ; — thus  in  the  balcony  scene — 


JULIET. 

I  have  no  joy  of  this  contract  to-night: 
It  is  too  rash,  too  unadvised,  too  sudden, 
Too  like  the  lightning  which  doth  cease  to  be 

Ere  one  can  say  it  lightens. 

Tliis  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath, 
May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when   next  we  meet. 


Again, 


O  for  a  falconer's  voice 
To  lure  this  tassel-gentle  back  again! 
Bondage  is  hoarse,  and  may  not  speak  aloud, 
Else  would  I  tear  the  cave  where   Echo  lies, 
And  make  her  airy  tongue  more  hoarse  than  mine 
With  repetition  of  my  Romeo's  name. 

Here  there  are    three    images    in    the    course   of  six  lines.     In  the 
same  scene,  the  speech  of  twenty-two  lines,  beginning, 

Thou  know'st  the  mask  of  night  is  on  my  face, 

contains  but  one  figurative  expression,  the  mask  of  night ;  and  every 
one  reading  this  speech  with  the  context,  must  have  felt  the  peculiar 
propriety  of  its  simplicity,  though  perhaps  without  examining  the 
cause  of  an  omission  which  certainly  is  not  fortuitous.  The  reason 
lies  in  the  situation  and  in  the  feeling  of  the  moment;  where 
confusion,  and  anxiety,  and  earnest  self-defence  predominate,  the 
excitability  and  play  of  the  imagination  would  be  checked  and 
subdued  for  the  time. 

In  the  soliloquy   of  the  second  act,  where    she    is    chiding    at   the 
Nurse's  delay : — 

O  she  is  lame  !     Love's  heralds  should  be  thoughts, 
That  ten  times  faster  glide  than  tiie  sun's  beams, 
Driving  back  shadows  over  low'ring  hills : 
Therefore  do  nimble-pinioned  doves  draw  Love, 
And  therefore  hath  the  wind-swift  Cupid  wings ! 


72  J  L  L  I  E  T  . 

How  beautiful !    how  the  lines    mount  and    float  responsiv^e  to  the 
sense  !     She  goes  on — 

Had  she  affections,  and  warm  youthful  blood, 
She'd  be  as  swift  in  motion  as  a  ball ; 
My  words  should  bandy  her  to  my  sweet  love, 
And  liis  to  me ! 

The  famous  soliloquy,  "  Gallop  apace,  ye  fiery-footed  steeds,"  teems 
with  luxuriant  imagery.  The  fond  adjuration,  "  Come  night  ! 
come  Romeo  !  come  thou  day  in  night  ! "  expresses  that  fulness  of 
enthusiastic  admiration  fcv  her  lover,  wkich  possesses  her  whole 
soul  ;  but  expresses  it  as  only  Juliet  could  or  would  have  expressed 
it, — in  a  bold  and  beautiful  metaphor.  Let  it  be  remembered,  that, 
in  this  speech,  Juliet  is  not  supposed  to  be  addressing  an  audience, 
nor  even  a  confidante  :  and  I  confess  I  have  been  shocked  at  the 
utter  want  of  taste  and  refinement  in  those  who,  with  coarse  derision, 
or  in  a  spirit  of  prudery  yet  more  gross  and  perverse,  have  dared 
to  comment  on  this  beautiful  "  Hymn  to  the  Night,"  breathed  out 
by  Juliet  in  the  silence  and  soiltude  of  her  chamber.  She  is  thinking 
aloud  ;  it  is  the  young  heart  "  triumphing  to  itself  in  words."  In 
the  midst  of  all  the  vehemence  with  which  she  calls  upon  the  night 
to  brinjr  Romeo  to  her  arms,  there  is  something  so  almost  infantine 
in  her  perfect  simplicity,  so  playful  and  fantastic  in  the  imagery  and 
lantruao-e,  that  the  charm  of  sentiment  and  innocence  is  thrown  over 
the  whole  ;  and  her  impatience,  to  use  her  own  expression,  is  truly 
that  of  "  a  child  before  a  festival,  that  hath  new  robes  and  may  not 
wear  them."  It  is  at  the  very  moment,  too,  that  her  whole  heart  and 
fancy  are  abandoned  to  blissful  anticipation,  that  the  nurse  enters 
with  the  news  of  Romeo's  banishment ;  and  the  immediate  transition 
from  rapture  to  despair  has  a  most  powerful  effect. 

It  is  the  same  shaping  spirit  of  imagination  which,  in  the  scene 
with  the  Friar,  heaps  together  all  images  of  horror  that  ever  hung 
upon  a  troubled  dream. 

O  bid  mo  leap,  rather  than  marry  Paris, 
From  off  the  battlements  of  yonder  tower, 


JULIET.  T3 

Or  walk  in  thievish  ways  ;  or  bid  me  lurk 

Where  serpents  are — chain  me  with  roaring  bears, 

Or  shut  me  nightly  in  a  charnel-house 

O'ercovered  quite  with  dead  men's  rattling  bones  ; 

Or  bid  mc  go  intc  a  new  made  grave  ; 

Or  hide  me  with  a  dead  man  in  his  shroud  ; — 

Things  that  to  hear  them  told  have  made  me  tremble  ! 

But  she  immediately  adds, — 

And  I  will  do  it  without  fear  or  doubt, 

To  live  an  unstained  wife  to  my  sweet  love  ! 

In  the  scene  where  she  drinks  the  sleeping  potion,  although  her 
spirit  does  not  quail,  nor  her  determination  falter  for  an  instant,  her 
vivid  fancy  conjures  up  one  terrible  apprehension  after  another,  till 
gradually,  and  most  naturally,  in  such  a  mind  once  thrown  off  its 
poise,  the  horror  rises  to  frenzy— her  imagination  realizes  its  own 
hideous  creations,  and  she  sees  her  cousin  Tybalt's  ghost.* 

In  particular  passages  this  luxuriance  of  fancy  may  seem  to  wander 
into  excess.     For  instance, — 

O  serpent  heart,  hid  with  a  flowery  face  ! 
Did  ever  dragon  keep  so  fair  a  cave  ? 
Beautiful  tyrant  !  fiend  angelical ! 
Dove-feather'd  raven  !  wolfish  ravening  lamb,  &c. 

Yet  this  highly  figurative  and  antithetical  exuberance  of  language 
is  defended  by  Schlegel  on  strong  and  just  grounds  ;  and  to  me  also 
it  appears  natural,  however  critics  may  argue  against  its  taste  or 
propriety.!     The  warmth   and   vivacity  of   Juliet's  fancy,  which  plays 

*  Juliet,  courageously  drinking  olT  the  potion,  after  she  has  placed  before  herself  iu 
the  most  fearful  colors  all  its  possible  consequences,  is  compared  by  Schlegel  to  the 
famous  story  of  Alexander  and  his  physician. 

t  Perhaps  'tis  pretty  to  force  together 
Thoughts  80  all  unlike  each  other  ; 
To  mutter  and  mock  a  broken  charm, 
To  dally  with  wrong  that  does  no  harm  ! 
Perhaps  'tis  tender,  too,  and  pretty, 
10 


74  JULIET. 

like  a  light  over  every  part  of  her  character — which  animates  every 
line  she  utters — which  kindles  every  thought  into  a  picture,  and 
clolhcs  her  emotions  in  visible  images,  would  naturally,  under  strong 
and  unusual  excitement,  and  in  the  conflict  of  opposmg  sentiments, 
run  into  some  extravagance  of  diction.* 

With  regard  to  the  termination  of  the  play,  which  has  heen  a 
subject  of  much  critical  argument,  it  is  well  known  that  Shakspeare, 
following  the  old  English  versions,  has  departed  from  the  original 
story  of  Da  Porta  ;f  and  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  Da  Porta,  in 


At  each  wild  word  to  feci  within 
A  sweet  recoil  of  love  and  pity. 
And  what  if  in  a  world  of  sin 
(0  sorrow  and  shame  should  this  be  true  !) 
Such  giddiness  of  heart  and  brain 
Comes  seldom  save  from  rage  and  pain. 
So  talks  as  it's  most  used  to  do  ?  Coleridge. 

These  lines  seem  to  me  to  form  the  truest  comment  on  Juliet's  wild  exclamationa 
against  Romeo. 

*  "  The  censure,"  observes  Schlegel,  '•  originates  in  a  fanciless  way  of  thinking, 
to  which  everything  appears  unnatural  that  does  not  suit  its  tame  insipidity. 
Hence  an  idea  has  been  formed  of  simple  and  natural  pathos,  which  consists  in 
cxclam.ations  destitute  of  imagery,  and  nowise  elevated  above  every-day  life  ;  but 
encr"-etic  passions  electrify  the  whole  mental  powers,  and  will,  consequently,  in  highly- 
favored  natures,  express  themselves  in  an  ingenious  and  figurative  manner." 

t  The  "  Giulietta"  of  Luigi  da  Porta  was  written  about  1520.  In  a  popular  little 
book  published  in  1-50.'),  thirty  years  before  Shakspeare  wrote  his  tragedy,  the  name 
of  Juliet  occurs  as  an  example  of  faithful  love,  and  is  thus  explained  by  a  note  in 
the  margin.  "  Juliet,  a  noble  maiden  of  the  citie  of  Verona,  which  loved  Romeo, 
eldest  son  of  the  Lord  Monteschi  ;  and  being  privily  married  together,  he  at  last 
poisoned  himself  for  love  of  her  :  she,  for  sorrow  of  his  death,  slew  herself  with 
his  dagger."  This  note,  which  furnishes,  in  brief,  the  whole  argument  of  Shakspeare's 
pi  ly,  might  possibly  have  made  the  fir.-it  impression  on  his  fancy.  In  the  novel  of  Da 
Porta  the  catastrophe  is  altogether  different.  After  the  death  of  Romeo,  the  Friar 
Lorcn/.c  endeavors  to  persuade  Juliet  to  leave  the  fatal  monument.  She  refuses; 
aiul  throwing  herself  back  on  the  dead  body  of  her  husband,  she  resolutely  holds  her 
breath  and  dies. — "  E  volt.itasi  al  giacente  corpo  di  Romeo,  il  cui  capo  sopra 
un  origliere,  che  con  lei  ncU'  area  era  stato  lasciato,  posto  aveva  ;  gli  occhi  meglio 
rinchiusi  avendogli,  e  di  lagrime  il  frcddo  volto  bagnandogli,  disse  ;"  Che  debbo 
(lenza  di  te  in  vita  piu  fare,  signor  mio  ?  e  che  altro  mi  resta  verso  to  se  non 
colla  mia  morte  seguirti  .'  "  E  detto  questo,  la  sua  gran  sciagura  nell'  animo  recatasi, 
e  la  perdita  del  caroamante  ricordandosi,  deliberando  di  piu  non  vivere,  raccolto  a  se  il 


JULIET.  75 

making  Juliet  waken  from  her  trance  while  Romeo  yet  lives,  and  in 
his  terrible  final  scene  between  the  lovers,  has  himself  departed  from 
the  old  tradition,  and,  as  a  romance,  has  certainly  improved  it ;  but 
tliat  wliich  is  effective  in  a  narrative,  is  not  always  calculated  for 
the  drama  ;  and  I  cannot  but  agree  with  Schlegel,  that  Shakspeare 
has  done  well  and  wisely  in  adhering  to  the  old  story.  Can  we 
doubt  for  a  moment  that  he  who  has  given  us  the  catastrophe  of 
Othello,  and  the  tempest  scene  in  Lear,  might  also  have  adopted 
these  additional  circumstances  of  horror  in  the  fate  of  the  lovers,  and 
have  so  treated  them  as  to  harrow  up  our  very  soul — had  it  been  his 
object  to  do  so  ?     But  apparently  it  was  not.     The  tale  is  one, 

Such  as,  once  heard,  in  gen'le  heart  destroys 
All  pain  but  pity. 

It  is  in  truth  a  tale  of  love  and  sorrow,  not  of  anguish  and  terror. 
We  behold  the  catastrophe  afar  off  with  scarcely  a  wish  to  avert  it. 
Romeo  and  Juliet  must  die  ;  their  destiny  is  fulfilled :  they  have, 
quaffed  off  the  cup  of  life,  with  all  its  infinite  of  joys  and  agonies, 
in  one  intoxicating  draught.  What  have  they  to  do  more  upon  this 
earth  1  Young,  innocent,  loving  and  beloved,  they  descend  together 
into  the  tomb  :  but  Shakspeare  has  made  that  tomb  a  shrine  of 
martyred  and  sainted  affection  concentrated  for  the  worship  of  all 
hearts, — not  a  dark  charnel  vault,  haunted    by  speotres  of  pani,   rage, 


fiato,  e  per  buono  spazio  tenutolo,  e  poscia  con  un  gran  grJdo  fuori  mandandolo,  sopra  il 
morto  corpo,  morta  ricaddo." 

There  is  nothing  so  improbable  in  the  story  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  as  to  make  us  doubt 
the  tradition  that  it  is  a  real  fact.  «'  The  Veronese,"  says  Lord  Byron,  in  one  of  his 
letters  from  Verona,  "  are  tenacious  to  a  degree  of  the  truth  of  Juliet's  story,  insistinj; 
on  the  fact,  giving  the  date  1303,  and  showing  a  tomb.  It  is  a  plain,  open,  and  partly 
decayed  sarcophagus,  with  withered  leaves  in  it,  in  a  will  and  desolate  conventual 
garden — once  a  cemetery,  now  ruined,  to  the  very  graves  !  The  situation  struck  me  as 
very  appropriate  to  the  legend,  being  blighted  as  their  love."  He  might  have  added, 
that  when  Verona  itself,  with  its  amphitiieatre  and  its  Palladian  structures,  lies  level 
with  the  earth,  the  very  spot  on  which  it  stood  will  still  be  consecrated  by  the  memory 
of  Juliet, 

When  in  Italy,  I  met  a  gentleman,  who  being  then  "  dans  le  genre  romantiqtie," 
wore  a  fragment  of  Juliet's  tomb  set  in  a  ring. 


76  JULIET. 

and  desperation.  Komeo  and  Juliet  are  pictured  lovely  in  death  as  in 
life  ;  the  sympathy  they  inspire  does  not  oppress  us  with  that 
suffocating  sense  of  horror,  which  in  the  altered  tragedy  makes  the 
fall  of  the  curtain  a  relief;  but  all  pain  is  lost  in  the  tenderness 
and  poetic  beauty  of  the  picture.  Romeo's  last  speech  over  his  bride 
is  not  like  the  raving  of  a  disappointed  boy  :  in  its  deep  pathos,  its 
rapturous  despair,  its  glowing  imagery,  there  is  the  very  luxury  of 
life  and  love.  Juliet,  who  had  drunk  off  the  sleeping  potion  in  a  fit 
of  frenzy,  wakes  calm  and  collected. 

I  do  remember  well  where  I  should  be, 
And  there  I  am — ^Where  is  my  Romeo  ? 

The  profound  slumber  in  which  her  senses  have  been  steeped  for 
so  many  hours  has  tranquillized  her  nerves,  and  stilled  the  fever  in 
her  blood;  she  wakes  "like  a  sweet  child  who  has  been  dreaming 
of  something  promised  to  it  by  its  motheif,"  and  opens  her  eyes  to 
ask  for  it — 

-■Wliere  is  my  Romeo  ? 

she  is  answered  at  once, — 

„  Thy  husband  in  thy  bosom  here  lies  dead. 

This  is  enough  :  she  sees  at  once  the  whole  horror  of  her  situation 
— she  sees  it  with  a  quiet  and  resolved  despair — she  utters  no 
reproach  against  the  Friar — makes  no  inquiries,  no  complaints,  except 
that  affecting  remonstrance — 

O  churl — drink  all,  and  leave  no  friendly  drop 
To  help  me  after ! 

All  that  is  left  to  her  is  to  die,  and  she  dies.  The  poem,  which 
opened  with  the  enmity  of  the  two  families,  closes  w^th  their 
reconciliation  over  the  breathless  remains  of  their  children ;  and  no 
violent,  frightful,  or  discordant  feeling  is  suffered  to  mingle  with  that 


JULIET.  '?7 

soft    impression    of    melancholy    left    witliin    the    heart,    and    which 
Schlegel  ^compares  to  one  long,  endless  sigh. 

"  A  youthful  passion,"  says  Goethe  (alluding  to  one  of  his  own 
early  attachments),  "  which  is  conceived  and  cherished  without  any 
certain  object,  may  be  compared  to  a  shell  thrown  from  a  mortar  by 
night  :  it  rises  calmly  in  a  brilliant  track,  and  seems  to  mix,  and 
even  to  dwell  for  a  moment,  with  the  stars  of  heaven ;  but  at  length 
it  falls — it  bursts — consuming  and  destroying  all  around,  even  as 
itself  expires." 

To  conclude :  love,  considered  under  its  poetical  aspect,  is  the 
union  of  passion  and  imagination ;  and  accordingly,  to  one  of  these, 
or  to  both,  all  the  qualities  of  Juliet's  mind  and  heart  (unfolding  and 
varying  as  the  action  of  the  drama  proceeds)  may  be  finally  traced  5 
the  former  concentrating  all  those  natural  impulses,  fervent  affections, 
and  high  energies,  which  lend  the  character  its  internal  charm,  its 
moral  power  and  individual  interest :  the  latter  diverging  from  all 
those  splendid  and  luxuriant  accompaniments  which  invest  it  with 
its  external  glow,  its  beauty,  its  vigor,  its  freshness,  and  its  truth. 

With  all  this  immense  capacity  of  alTection  and  imagination,  there 
is  a  deficiency  of  reflection  and  of  moral  energy  arising  from 
previous  habit  and  education :  and  the  action  of  the  drama,  while  it 
serves  to  develope  the  character,  appears  but  its  natural  and  necessary 
result.  "  Le  mystere  de  I'existence,"  said  Madame  de  Stael  to  her 
daughter,  "  c'est  le  rapport  de  nos  erreurs  avec  nos  peincs." 


HELENA. 


In  the  character  of  Juliet  we  have  seen  the  passionate  and  the 
imaginative  blendeJ  in  an  equal  degree,  and  in  the  highest 
conceivatle  degree  as  combined  with  delicate  female  nature.  In 
Helena  we  have  a  modification  of  character  altogether  distinct; 
allied,  indeed,  to  Juliet  as  a  picture  of  fervent,  enthusiastic,  self- 
forgetting  love,  but  differing  w^holly  from  her  in  other  respects  ;  for 
Helena  is  the  union  of  strength  of  passion  with  strength  of  character. 

"  To  be  tremblingly  alive  to  gentle  impressions,  and  yet  be  able  to 
preserve,  when  the  prosecution  of  a  design  requires  it,  an  immovable 
heart  amidst  even  the  most  imperious  causes  of  subduing  emotion,  is 
perhaps  not  an  impossible  constitution  of  mind,  but  it  is  the  utmost 
and  rarest  endowment  of  humanity."*  Such  a  character,  almost  as 
difficult  to  delineate  in  fiction  as  to  find  in  real  life,  has  Shakspeare 
given  us  in  Helena ;  touched  with  the  most  soul-subduing  pathos, 
and  developed  with  the  most  consummate  skill. 

Helena,  as  a  woman,  is  more  passionate  than  imaginative  ;  and 
as  a  character,  she  bears  the  same  relation  to  Juliet  that  Isabel  bears 
to  Portia.  There  is  equal  unity  of  purpose  and  effect,  with  much  less 
of  the  glow  of  imagery  and  the  external  coloring  of  poetry  in  tlie 
sentiments,  language  and  details.  It  is  passion  developed  under  its 
most  profound  and  serious  aspect ;  as  in  Isabella,  we  have  the  S(  rious 
and  the  thoughtful,  not  the  brilliant  side  of  intellect.  Both  Helena 
and  Isabel  are  distinguished  by  high  mental  powers,  tinged  witli  a 
melancholy  sweetness  ;  but  in  Isabella  the  serious  and  energetic  part 
of  the  character  is  founded  in  religious  principle  ;  in  Helena  it  is 
founded  in  deep  passion. 

•  Foster's  Essays 


80  HELENA. 

There  never  was,  perhaps,  a  more  beautiful  picture  of  a  woman's 
love,  cherished  in  secret,  not  self-consuming  in  silent  languishment— 
not  pining  in  thought — not  passive  and  "  desponding  over  its  idol  " 
— but  patient  and  hopeful,  strong  in  its  own  intensity,  and  sustained 
by  its  own  fond  faith.  The  passion  here  reposes  upon  itself  for  all 
its  interest ;  it  derives  nothing  from  art  or  ornament  or  circumstance ; 
it  has  nothing  of  the  picturesque  charm  or  glowing  romance  of 
Juliet  ;  nothing  of  the  poetical  splendor  of  Portia,  or  the  vestal 
o-randeur  of  Isabel.  The  situation  of  Helena  is  the  most  painful  and 
dco-radinof  in  which  a  woman  can  be  placed.  She  is  poor  and  lowly ; 
she  loves  a  man  who  is  far  her  superior  in  rank,  who  repays  her  love 
with  indifference,  and  rejects  her  hand  with  scorn.  She  marries  him 
against  his  will  ;  he  leaves  her  with  contumely  on  the  day  of  their 
marriatre,  and  makes  his  return  to  her  arms  depend  on  conditions 
apparently  impossible.*  All  the  circumstances  and  details  with  which 
Helena  is  surrounded,  are  shocking  to  our  feelings  and  wounding  to 
our  delicacy :  and  yet  the  beauty  of  the  character  is  made  to  triumph 
over  all  :  and  Shakspeare,  resting  for  all  his  effect  on  its  internal 
resources  and  its  genuine  tiiith  and  sweetness,  has  not  even  availed 
himself  of  some  extraneous  advantages  with  which  Helen  is 
represented  in  the  original  story.  She  is  the  Giletta  di  Narbonna 
of  Boccaccio.  In  the  Italian  tale,  Giletta  is  the  daughter  of  a 
celebrated  physician  attached  to  the  court  of  Roussillon  ;  she  is 
represented  as  a  rich  heiress,  who  rejects  many  suitors  of  worth  and 
rank,  in  consequence  of  her  secret  attachment  to  the  young  Bertram 
de  Roussillon.  She  cures  the  King  of  France  of  a  grievous  distemper, 
by  one  of  her  father's  prescriptions  ;  and  she  asks  and  receives  as 
her  reward  the  young  Count  of  Roussillon  as  her  wedded  husband. 
He  forsakes  her  on  their  wedding-day,  and  she  retires,  by  his  order, 
to  his  territory  of  Roussillon.  There  she  is  received  with  honor,  takes 
state  upon  her  in  her  husband's  absence  as  the  "  lady  of  the  land," 
administers  justice,  and  rules  her  lord's  dominions  so  wisely  and 
so  well,  that  she  is  universally  loved   and   reverenced  by  his  subjects. 

•  I  have  read  somewhere  that  the  play  of  which  Helena  is  the  heroine  (All's  Well 
that  Ends  Well),  was  at  first  entitled  by  Shakspeare  "  Love's  Labor  Won."  Why  the 
title  was  altered,  or  by  whom,  I  cannot  discover. 


HELENA. 


«i 


In  the  meantime,  the  Count,  instead  of  rejoining  her,  fltes  to  Tuscany, 
and  the  rest  of  the  sto,-y  is  closely  folloxved  in  the  drama.  The 
beauty,  .-isdom,  and  royal  demeanor  of  Giletta  -  '^^'"S  >; 
described,  as  well  as  her  fervent  love  for  Bertram.  But  Helet^a,  ,n 
the  play,  derives  no  dignity  or  interest  from  place  or  C'rcums«>ncc 
and  rest's  for  all  our  sympathy  and  respect  solely  upon  the  truth  and 
intensity  of  her  affections. 

She  is  indeed  represented  to  us  as  one 

Whose  beauty  did  astonish  the  Burvey 
Of  richest  eyes :  whose  words  all  ears  took  captive  ; 
^Vhose  dear  perfection,  hearts  that  scom'd  to  serve, 
Humbly  called  mistress. 

As  her  dimity  is  derived  from  mental  po^ver,  without  any  alloy  of 
pride,  so  her  humility  has  a  peculiar  grace.  If  she  feels  and  rep.nes 
over  her  lowly  birth,  it  is  merely  as  an  obstacle  which  separates  her 
from  the  man  she  loves.  She  is  more  sensible  to  his  greatness  than 
her  own  littleness :  she  is  continually  looking  from  herself  up  to  h.m, 
not  from  him  down  to  herself.  She  has  been  bred  up  under  the  same 
roof  with  him;  she  has  adored  him  from  infancy.  Her  love  ,s  not 
"  th'  infection  taken  in  at  the  eyes,"  nor  kindled  by  youthful  romance : 
it  appears  to  have  taken  root  in  her  being  ;  to  have  grown  wt.h  her 
years;  and  to  have  gradually  absorbed  all  her  though^  and  acult.es, 
until  her  fancy  "  carries  no  favor  in  _U  but  Bertram's,"  and  "there  .s 
no  living,  none,  if  Bertram  be  away."  ,    ,       „ 

It  may  be  said  that  Bertram,  arrogant,  wayward,  and  heartless, 
does  not  justify  this  ardent  and  deep  devotion.  But  Helena  does  not 
behold  him  with  our  eyes  ;  but  as  he  is  "  sanctified  >n  her  tdolatrous 
faney"  Dr.  Johnson  says  he  cannot  reconcile  himself  to  a  man  who 
marries  Helena  like  a  coward,  and  leaves  her  like  a  profligate  lh,s 
is  much  too  severe ;  in  the  first  place,  there  is  no  necess.ty  that  we 
skoM  reconcile  ourselves  to  him.  In  this  consists  a  part  of  the 
wonderful  beauty  of  the  character  of  Ilelena-a  part  ol  .ts  w^man  y 
truth,  which  Joiutson,  who  accuses  Bertram,  and  those  whoso  plaus.b  y 
defend  him,  did  not  understand.  If  it  never  happened  -  reaUtfe 
that  a  wotnan,  richly  endued  wi.l>  heaven's  best  g.fts,  loved  w.th  all 


S2  HELENA. 

her  heart,  and  soul,  and  strength,  a  man  unequal  to  or  unworthy  of 
her,  and  to  whose  faults  herself  alone  was  blind — I  would  give  up 
the  point  :  hut  if  it  be  in  nature,  why  should  it  not  be  in 
Shakspeare  1  We  are  not  to  look  into  Bertram's  character  for  the 
spring  and  source  of  Helena's  love  for  him,  but  into  her  own.  She 
loves  Bertram^ — because  she  loves  him  ! — a  woman's  reason, — but 
here,  and  sometimes  elsewhere,  all-sufficient. 

And  although  Helena  tells  herself  that  she  loves  in  vain,  a  conviction 
stronger  than  reason  tells  her  that  she  does  not  :  her  love  is  like 
a  religion,  pure,  holy,  and  deep  :  the  blessedness  to  which  she  has 
lifted  her  thoughts  is  for  ever  before  her  ;  to  despair  would  be  a 
crime, — it  would  be  to  cast  herself  away  and  die.  The  faith  of  her 
alfection,  combining  with  the  natural  energy  of  her  character,  believin"- 
all  things  possible  makes  them  so.  It  could  say  to  the  mountain 
of  pride  which  stands  between  her  and  her  hopes,  "  Be  thou 
removed  !  "  and  it  is  removed.  This  is  the  solution  of  her  behavior 
in  the  marriage-scene,  w^here  Bertram,  with  obvious  reluctance  and 
disdain,  accepts  her  hand,  which  the  King,  his  feudal  lord  and 
guardian,  forces  on  him.  Her  maidenly  feeling  is  at  first  shocked, 
and  she  shrinks  back — 


That  you  are  well  restor'd,  my  lord,  I  am  glad 
Let  the  rest  go. 


But  shall  she  weakly  relinquish  the  golden  opportunity,  and  dash  the 
cup  from  her  lips  at  the  moment  it  is  presented  ?  Shall  she  cast 
away  the  treasure  for  which  she  hiis  ventured  both  life  and  honor, 
when  it  is  just  within  her  grasp  ?  Shall  she,  after  compromising  her 
feminine  delicacy  by  the  public  disclosure  of  her  preference,  be  thrust 
back  into  shame,  "  to  blush  out  the  remainder  of  her  life,"  and  die 
a  poor,  lost,  scorned  thing  ?  This  would  be  very  pretty  and  interesting 
and  characteristic  in  Viola  or  Ophelia,  but  not  at  all  consistent  with 
that  high  determined  spirit,  and  moral  energy,  with  which  Helena 
is  portrayed.  Pride  is  the  only  obstacle  opposed  to  her.  She  is  not 
despised  and  rejected  as  a  woman,  but  as  a  poor  physician's  daughter  ; 
and  this,  to  an  understanding  so  clear,  so  strong,  so  just  as  Helena's, 


HELENA.  83 

is  not  felt  as  an  unpardonable  insult.  The  mere  pride  of  rank  and 
birth  is  a  prejudice  of  which  she  cannot  comprehend  the  force, 
because  her  mind  towers  so  immeasurably  above  it  ;  and,  compared  to 
the  infinite  love  which  swells  within  her  own  bosom,  it  sinks  into 
nothing.  She  cannot  conceive  that  he,  to  whom  she  has  devoted 
her  heart  and  truth,  her  soul,  her  life,  her  service,  must  not  one 
day  love  her  in  return  ;  and  once  her  own  beyond  the  reach  of 
fate,  that  her  cares,  her  caresses,  her  unwearied  patient  tenderness, 
will  not  at  last  "  win  her  lord  to  look  upon  her" — 


For  time  will  bring  on  summer, 
When  briers  shall  have  leaves  as  well  as  thorns, 
And  be  as  sweet  as  sharp ! 


It  is  this  fond  faith  which,  hoping  all  things,  enables  lier  to  endure 
all  things: — which  hallows  and  dignifies  the  surrender  of  her 
woman's  pride,  making  it  a  sacrifice  on  which  virtue  and  love  throw 
a  mingled  incense. 

The  scene  in  which  the  Countess  extorts  from  Helen  the  confession 
of  her  love,  must,  as  an  illustration,  be  given  here.  It  is,  perhaps, 
the  finest  in  the  whole  play,  and  brings  out  all  the  striking  points 
of  Helen's  character,  to  which  I  have  already  alluded.  We  must  not 
fail  to  remark,  that  though  the  acknowledgment  is  wrung  from  her 
with  an  agony  which  seems  to  convulse  her  whole  being,  yet  v;hen 
once  she  has  given  it  solemn  utterance,  she  recovers  her  presence  of 
mind,  and  asserts  her  native  dignity.  In  her  justification  of  her 
feelings  and  her  conduct,  there  is  neither  sophistry,  nor  self-deception, 
nor  presumption,  but  a  noble  simplicity,  combined  with  the  most 
impassioned  earnestness ;  while  the  language  naturally  rises  in  its 
eloquent  beauty,  as  the  tide  of  feeling,  now  first  let  loose  from  the 
bursting  heart,  comes  pouring  forth  in  words.  The  whole  scene  is 
wonderfully  beautiful. 


Wliat  :3  your  pleasure,  madam  ? 


tA  HELENA. 

COUNTESS. 

You  know,  Helen,  I  am  a  mother  to  you. 

HELENA. 

Mine  honorable  mistress. 

COUNTESS. 

Nay,  a  mother ; 
Why  not  a  mother  ?    When  I  said  a  mother, 
Methought  you  saw  a  serpent :  what 's  in  mother 
That  you  start  at  it?     I  say,  I  am  your  mother 
And  put  you  in  the  catalogue  of  those 
That  were  enwombed  mine:  'tis  often  seen, 
Adoption  strives  with  nature;  and  choice  breeds 
A  native  slip  to  us  from  foreign  seeds. 
You  ne'er  oppress'd  me  with  a  mother's  groan, 
Yet  I  express  to  you  a  mother's  care : 
God's  mercy,  maiden !  does  it  curd  thy  blood 
To  say  I  am  thy  mother  ?     What 's  the  matter  ? 
That  this  distempered  messenger  of  wet. 
The  many-color'd  Iris,  rounds  thine  eye  ? 
Why  ? — ^that  you  are  my  daughter  ? 

HELENA. 

That  I  am  not. 

COUNTESS. 

I  say,  I  am  your  mother. 

HELENA. 

Pardon,  madam: 
The  Count  Roussillon  cannot  be  my  brother, 
I  am  from  humble,  he  from  honor'd  name  • 
No  note  upon  my  parents,  his  all  noble : 
My  master,  my  dear  lord  he  is :  and  I 
His  servant  live,  and  will  his  vassal  die  : 
He  must  not  be  my  brother. 

COUNTESS. 

Nor  I  your  mother  ? 


HELENA.  Ws 


You  arc  my  mother,  madam ;  would  you  were 

(So  that  my  lord,  your  son,  were  not  my  brother) 

Indeed  my  mother,  or,  were  you  both  our  mothers, 

I  care  no  more  for,  than  I  do  for  Heaven,* 

So  I  were  not  his  sister ;  can't  no  other, 

But  I,  your  daughter,  lie  must  be  my  brother  ? 


Yes,  Helen,  you  might  be  my  daughter-in-law  \ 

God  shield,  you  mean  it  not!  daughter  and  mother 

So  strive  upon  your  pulse :  what,  pale  again  ? 

My  fear  hath  catch'd  your  fondness :  now  I  see 

The  mystery  of  your  loneliness,  and  find 

Your  salt  tears'  head.    Now  to  all  sense  'tis  gross 

You  love  my  son ;  invention  is  asham'd. 

Against  the  proclamation  of  thy  passion, 

To  say,  thou  dost  not :  therefore  tell  me  true  ; 

But  tell  me  then,  'tis  so : — for,  look,  thy  cheeks 

Confess  it,  one  to  the  other. 

Speak,  is  't  so? 
If  it  be  so,  you  have  wound  a  goodly  clue ! 
If  it  be  not,  forswear  't :  howe'er,  I  charge  thee, 
As  heaven  shall  work  in  me  for  thy  avail, 
To  tell  me  truly. 

HELENA. 

Good  madam,  pardon  me ! 

COUNTESS. 

Do  you  love  my  son? 

HELENA. 

Your  pardon,  noble  mistress  ! 

CO0NTESS. 

Love  you  my  son  ? 

*  i.  e.  I  care  as  mucli  for  as  I  do  for  heaven. 


a  L  L  E  N  A  . 

HELENA. 

Do  not  you   love  liim,  madam  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Go  not  about ;  my  love  hath  in  't  a  bond, 
Whereof  the  world  takes  note :  come,  come,  disclose 
The  state  of  }'our  affection;  for  your  passions 
Have  to  the  full  appeach'd. 


Then  I  confess 
Here  on  my  knee,  before  high  heaven  and  you, 
That  before  you,  and  next  unto  high  lieaven, 
I  love  your  son  : — 

My  friends  were  poor,  but  honest;  so's  my  love. 
Be  not  offended ;   for  it  hurts  not  him, 
That  he  is  loved  of  me ;  I  follow  him  not 
By  any  token  of  presumptuous  suit ; 
Nor  would  I  have  him  till  I  do  deserve  him : 
Yet  never  know  how  that  desert  should  be. 
I  know  I  love  in  vain ;  strive  against  hope ; 
Yet,  in  this  captious  and  intenible  sieve, 
1  still  pour  in  the  waters  of  my  love, 
And  lack  not  to  love  siill :  thus,  Indian-like, 
Religious  in  mine  error,  I  adore 
The  sun  that  looks  upon  his  worshipper, 
But  knows  of  him  no  more.     My  dearest  madam. 
Let  not  your  hate  encounter  with  my  love. 
For  loving  where  you  do :  but,  if  yourself. 
Whose  aged  honor  cites  a  virtuous  youtli, 
Did  ever  in  so  true  a  flame  of  liking, 
Wish  chastely,  and  love  dearly,  that  your  DIan 
Was  both  herself  and  love ;  O  then  give  pity 
To  her,  whose  state  is  such,  tliat  cannot  choose 
But  lend  and  give,  where  she  is  sure  to  lose  ; 
That  seeks  not  to  find  that  her  search  implies. 
But,  riddle-like,  lives  sweetly  where  she  dies. 

This    old   Countess    of    Roussillon    is    a  charming  sketch.     She  is 
like    one    of    Titian's    old    women,  who    still,    amid    their   wrinkles, 


HELENA.  87 

remind  us  of  that  soul  of  beauty  and  sensibility,  which  must  have 
animated  them  when  young.  She  is  a  fine  contrast  to  Lady  Capulct 
— benign,  cheerful,  and  affectionate  ;  she  has  a  benevolent  enthusiasm, 
which  neither  age,  nor  sorrow,  nor  pride  can  wear  away.  Thus, 
when  she  is  brought  to  believe  that  Helen  nourishes  a  secret 
attachment  for  her  son,  she  observes — 

Even  so  it  was  with  me  when  I  was  young ! 

This  tliorn 
Doth  to  our  rose  of  youth  rightly  belong, 
It  is  the  show  and  seal  of  nature's  truth, 
When  love's  strong  passion  is  impross'd  in  youth. 

Her  fond,  maternal  love  for  Helena,  whom  she  has  brought  up  : 
her  pride  in  her  good  qualities  overpowering  all  her  own  prejudices 
of  rank  and  birth,  are  most  natural  in  such  a  mind  ;  and  her 
indignation  against  her  son,  however  strongly  expressed,  never  forgets 
the  mother. 

What  angel  shall 
Bless  this  unworthy  husband  ?  he  cannot  thrive 
Unless  lier  prayers,  whom  heaven  delights  to  hear 
And  loves  to  grant,  reprieve  him  from  the  wrath 
Of  greatest  justice. 

Which  of  them  both 
Is  dearest  to  me — I  have  no  skill  in  sense 
To  make  distinction. 

This  is  very  skilfully,  as  well  as  delicately  conceived.  In  rejecting 
those  poetical  and  accidental  advantages  which  Giletta  possesses  in 
the  original  story,  Shakspeare  has  substituted  the  beautiful  character 
of  the  Countess  ;  and  he  has  contrived,  that,  as  the  character  of 
Helena  should  rest  for  its  internal  charm  on  the  depth  of  her  own 
affections,  so  it  should  depend  for  its  external  interest  on  the  affection 
she  inspires.  The  enthusiastic  tenderness  of  the  old  Countess,  the 
admiration  and  respect  of  the  King,  Lafeu,  and  all  who  are  brought 
in  connexion  with  her,  make  amends  for  the  humihating  neglect 
of    Bertram  ;    and    cast     round    Helen    that    collateral    light,   which 


88  1 1  E  L  E  N  A  . 

Giletla  in  the  story  owes  to  other  circumstances,  striking  indeed,  and 
well  imao-ined,  but  not  (I  think)  so  finely  harmonizing  with  the 
character. 

It  is  also  very  natural  that  Helen,  with  the  intuitive  discernment 
of  a  pure  and  upright  mind,  and  the  penetration  of  a  quick-witted 
woman,  should  be  the  first  to  detect  the  falsehood  and  cowardice 
of  the   boaster  Parolles,  who  imposes  on  every  one  else. 

It  has  been  remarked,  that  there  is  less  of  poetical  imagery  in 
this  play  than  in  many  of  the  others.  A  certain  solidity  in  Helen's 
character  takes  place  of  the  ideal  power  ;  and  with  consistent  truth 
of  keeping,  the  same  predominance  of  feeling  over  fancy,  of  the 
reflective  over  the  imaginative  faculty,  is  maintained  through  the 
whole  dialogue.  Yet  the  finest  passages  in  the  serious  scenes  are 
those  appropriated  to  her ;  they  are  familiar  and  celebrated  as 
quotations,  but  fully  to  understand  their  beauty  and  truth,  they  should 
be  considered  relatively  to  her  character  and  situation  ;  thus,  when 
in  speaking  of  Bertram,  she  says,  "  that  he  is  one  to  whom  she 
wishes  well,"  the  consciousness  of  the  disproportion  between  her 
words  and  her  feelings  draws  from  her  this  beautiful  and  affecting 
observation,  so  just  in  itself,'  and  so  true  to  her  situation,  and  to 
the  sentiment  which  fills  her  whole  heart  : — 


'Tis  pity 
That  wishing  well  had  not  a  body  in't 
Which  might  be  felt  :  tliat  we,  the  poorer  born, 
Whose  baser  stars  do  shut  us  up  in  wishes, 
Might  with  effects  of  them  follow  our  friends, 
And  act  what  we  must  only  think,  which  never 
Returns  us  thanks. 


Some  of   her   general   reflections   have    a   sententious   depth   and   a 
contemplative  melancholy,  which  remind  us  of  Isabella  : — 


Our  remedies  oft  in  themselves  do  lie 
Which  we  ascribe  to  heaven  ;  the  fated  sVy 
Gives  us  free  scope  ;  only  doth  backward  pull 
Our  slow  dcsifirns  when  we  ourselves  are  dull. 


HELEN  A  .  89 

Impossible  be  strange  events  to  those 

That  weigh  their  pains  in  sense  ;  and  do  suppose 

What  hath  been,  cannot  be. 

He  that  of  greatest  works  is  finisher, 
Oft  does  them  by  the  weakest  minister  : 
So  holy  writ  in  babes  hath  judgment  shown, 
When  judges  have  been  babes. 

Oft  expectation  fails,  and  most  oft  there 
Where  most  it  promises ;  and  oft  it  hits, 
Where  hope  is  coldest,  and  despair  most  sits. 


Her  sentiments  in  the  same  manner  are  remarkable  for  the  union 
of  profound  sense  with  the  most  passionate  feeling  ;  and  when  her 
language  is  figurative,  which  is  seldom,  the  picture  presented  to  us 
is  invariably  touched  either  with  a  serious,  a  lofty,  or  a  melancholy 
beauty.     For  instance  : — 

It  were  all  one 
That  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star, 
And  think  to  wed  it — he's  so  far  above  me. 

And  when  she  is  brought  to  choose  a  husband  from  among  the; 
young  lords  at  the  court,  her  heart  having  already  made  its  election, 
the  strangeness  of  that  very  privilege  for  which  she  had  ventured 
all,  nearly  overpowers  her,  and  she  says  beautifully  •    ■ 

The  blushes  on  my  cheeks  thus  whisper  me, 
"  We  blush  that  thou  shouldst  choose ; — but  be  refused, 
Let  the  white  death  sit  on  that  cheek  for  ever, 
We'll  ne'er  come  there  again  ! " 

In  her  soliloquy  after  she  has  been  Ibrsaken  by  Bertram,  the  beauty 

lies  in  the  intense  feeling,  the  force  and  simplicity  of  the  expressions. 

There  is  little    imagery,   and   whenever   it   occurs,  it  is  as  bold  as    it 

is   beautiful,  and  springs  out  of  the  energy  of  the  sentiment,  and  the 

pathos  of  the  situation.     She  has  been  reading  his  cruel  letter. 

12 


90  HELENA. 

Till  I  have  no  wife  I  have  nothing  vi  France. 
'Tis  bitter ! 

Notliing  in  France,  until  he  has  no  wife ! 
Thou  slialt  have  none,  Roussillon,  none  in  France, 
Then  hast  thou  all  again.     Poor  lord !  is  't  I 
That  chase  thee  from  thy  country,  and  expose 
Those  tender  limbs  of  thine  to  the  event 
Of  the  none-sparing  war  ?     And  is  it  I 
That  drive  thee  from  the  sportive  court,  where  thou 
Wast  shot  at  with  fair  eyes,  to  be  the  mark 
Of  smoky  muskets  ?     O  you  leaden  messengers, 
That  ride  upon  the  violent  speed  of  fire, 
Fly  with  false  aim!  move  the  still-piercing  air. 
That  sings  with  piercing,  do  not  touch  my  lord  I 
Whoever  shoots  at  him,  I  set  him  there ; 
Whoever  charges  on  his  forward  breast, 
I  am  the  caitiff  that  do  hold  him  to  it; 
And  though  I  kill  him  not,  I  am  the  cause 
His  death  was  so  effected ;  better  't  were 
I  met  the  ravin  lion  when  he  roared 
With  sharp  constraint  of  hunger ;  better  't  were 
That  all  the  miseries  which  nature  owes, 
Were  mine  at  once. 

No,  no,  although 
The  air  of  paradise  did  fan  the  house. 
And  angels  ofRccd  all ;  I  will  be  gone. 

Though  I  cannot  go  the  length  of  those  who  have  defended 
Bertram  on  almost  every  point,  still  I  think  the  censure  which 
Johnson  has  parsed  on  the  character  is  much  too  severe.  Bertram  is 
certainly  not  a  pattern  hero  of  romance,  but  full  of  faults  such  as 
we  meet  with  every  day  in  men  of  his  age  and  class.  He  is  a 
bold,  ardent,  self-willed  youth,  just  dismissed  into  the  world  from 
domestic  indulgence,  with  an  excess  of  aristocratic  and  military  pride, 
but  not  without  some  sense  of  true  honor  and  generosity.  I  have 
lately  read  a  defence  of  Bertram's  character,  written  with  much 
elegance  and  plausibility.  "  The  young  Count,"  says  this  critic, 
"  comes  before  us  possessed  of  a  good  heart,  and  of  no  mean 
capacity,  but  with  a  haughtiness  which    threatens    to  dull    the  kinder 


HELENA.  91 

passions,  and  to  cloud  the  intellect.  This  is  the  inevitable 
consequence  of  an  illustrious  education.  The  glare  of  his  birthright 
has  dazzled  his  young  faculties.  Perhaps  the  fust  words  he  could 
distinguish  were  from  the  important  nurse,  giving  elaborate  directions 
about  his  lordship's  pap.  As  soon  as  he  could  walk,  a  crowd  of 
submissive  vassals  doffed  their  caps,  and  hailed  his  first  appearance 
on  his  legs.  His  spelling-book  had  the  arras  of  the  family 
emblazoned  on  the  cover.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  himself 
called  the  great,  the  mighty  son  of  Roussillon,  ever  since  he  was  a 
helpless  child.  A  succession  of  complacent  tutors  would  by  no 
means  destroy  the  illusion  ;  and  it  is  from  their  hands  that  Shakspeare 
receives  him,  while  yet  in  his  minority.  An  overweening  pride  of 
birth  is  Bertram's  great  foible.  To  cure  him  of  this,  Shakspeare 
sends  him  to  the  wars,  that  he  may  win  fame  for  himself,  and  thus 
exchange  a  shadow  for  a  reality.  There  the  great  dignity  that  his 
valor  acquired  for  him  places  him  on  an  equality  with  any  one  of 
his  ancestors,  and  he  is  no  longer  beholden  to  them  alone  for  the 
world's  observance.  Thus  in  his  own  person  he  discovers  there  is 
something  better  than  mere  hereditary  honors ;  and  his  heart  is 
prepared  to  acknowledge  that  the  entire  devotion  of  a  Helen's  love 
is  of  more  worth  than  the  court-bred  smiles  of  a  princess."  * 

It  is  not  extraordinary  that,  in  the  first  instance,  his  spirit  should 
revolt  at  the  idea  of  marrying  his  mother's  "  waiting  gentlewoman," 
or  that  he  should  refuse  her ;  yet  when  the  king,  his  feudal  lord, 
whose  despotic  authority  was  in  this  case  legal  and  indisputable, 
threatens  him  with  the  extremity  of  his  wrath  and  vengeance,  that 
he  should  submit  himself  to  a  hard  necessity,  was  too  consistent  with 
the  manners  of  the  time  to  be  called  cowardice.  Such  forced 
marriages  were  not  uncommon  even  in  our  own  country,  when  the 
right  of  wardship,  now  vested  in  the  Lord  Chancellor,  was  exercised 
with  uncontrolled  and  often  cruel  despotism  by  the  sovereign. 

There  is  an  old  ballad,  in  which  the  king  bestows  a  maid  of 
low  degree  on  a  noble  of  his  court,  and  the  undisguised  scorn  and 
reluctance  of  the  knight,  and  the  pertinacity  of  the  lady,  are  in 
point. 

•  New  Moiitlily  Magazine,  vol.  iv. 


92  H  E  L  E  N  A  . 

He  brought  her  dowTi  full  forty  pound 
Tyed  up  within  a  glove, 

"  Fair  maid,  I'll  give  the  same  to  thee, 
Go  seek  another  love." 


"0  1  '11  have  none  of  your  gold,"  she  said, 
"  Nor  I  '11  have  none  of  your  fee ; 

But  your  fair  bodye  I  must  have. 
The  king  hath  granted  me." 

Sir  William  ran  and  fetched  her  then, 

Five  hundred  pounds  in  gold, 
Saying, "  Fair  maid,  take  this  to  thee, 

My  fault  will  ne'er  be  told." 

"  'Tis  not  the  gold  that  shall  me  tempt," 
These  words  then  answered  she  ; 

'•  But  your  o\\ti  bod3-e  I  must  have, 
The  king  hath  granted  me." 

"  Would  1  had  drank  the  water  clear. 

When  I  did  drink  the  wine. 
Rather  than  any  shepherd's  brat 

Should  be  a  ladve  of  mine  !  "  * 


Bertram's  disgust  at  the  tvrannv  Avhich  has  made  his  freedom  the 
payment  of  another's  debt,  which  has  miited  him  to  a  woman 
whose  merits  are  not  towards  him — whose  secret  love,  and  long- 
enduring  faith,  are  yet  unkno\\Ti  and  untried — might  well  make  his 
bride  distasteful  to  him.  He  flies  her  on  the  very  day  of  their 
marriage,  most  like  a  wilful,  haughty,  angry  boy,  but  not  like  a 
profligate.  On  other  points  he  is  not  so  easily  defended;  and 
Shakspeare,  we  see,  has  not  defended,  but  corrected  him.  The  latter 
part  of  the  play  is  more  perplexing  than  pleasing.  We  do  not, 
indeed,  repine  with  Dr.  Johnson,  that  Bertram,  after  all  his 
misdemeanors,  is  "dismissed  to  happiness;"  but,  notwithstanding   the 

•  Percy's  Reliquea. 


HELENA.  y-'i 

clever  defence  that  has  been  made  for  him,  he  has  our  pardon  rather 
than  our  sympathy ;  and  for  mine  own  part,  I  could  find  it  easier  to 
love  Bertram  as  Helena  does,  than  to  excuse  him  j  her  love  for  him 
is  his  best  excuse. 


Act4.Sc.  3. 


PERDITA. 


In  Viola  and  Perdita  the  distinguishing  traits  are  the  same — 
sentiment  and  elegance;  thus  we  associate  them  together,  though 
nothing  can  be  more  distinct  to  the  fancy  than  the  Doric  grace  of 
Perdita,  compared  to  the  romantic  sweetness  of  Viola.  They  are 
created  out  of  the  same  materials,  and  are  equal  to  each  other  in  the 
tenderness,  delicacy,  and  poetical  beauty  of  the  conception.  They  are 
both  more  ima^native  than  passionate ;  but  Perdita  is  the  more 
imaginative  of  the  two.  She  is  the  union  of  the  pastoral  and 
romantic  with  the  classical  and  poetical,  as  if  a  dryad  of  the  woods 
had  turned  shepherdess.  The  perfections  with  which  the  poet  has  so 
lavishly  endowed  her,  sit  upon  her  with  a  certain  careless  and 
picturesque  grace,  "  as  though  they  had  fallen  upon  her  unawares." 
Thus  Belphcebe,  in  the  Fairy  Queen,  issues  from  the  flowering  forest 
with  hair  and  garments  all  besprinkled  with  the  leaves  and  blossoms 
they  had  entangled  in  their  flight ;  and  so  arrayed  by  chance  and 
"  heedless  hap,"  takes  all  hearts  with  "  stately  presence  and  with 
princely  port," — most  like  to  Perdita ! 

The  story  of  Florizel  and  Perdita  is  but  an  episode  in  the 
"  Winter's  Tale ; "  and  the  character  of  Perdita  is  properly  kept 
subordinate  to  that  of  her  mother,  Hermione :  yet  the  picture  is 
perfectly  finished  in  every  part ; — Juliet  herself  is  not  more  firmly 
and  distinctly  drawn.  But  the  coloring  in  Perdita  is  more  silvery 
light  and  delicate ;  the  pervading  sentiment  more  touched  with  the 
ideal ;  compared  with  Juliet,  she  is  like  a  Guido  hung  beside  a 
Georgione,  or  one  of  Paesiello's  airs  heard  after  one  of  Mozart's. 

The  qualities  which  impart  to  Perdita  her  distinct  individuality,  are 
the    beautiful     combination    of    the    pastoral    with    the    elegant — of 


96  P  E  R  D  I  T  A  . 

simplicity  with  elevation — of  spirit  with  sweetness.  The  exquisite 
delicacy  of  the  picture  is  apparent.  To  understand  and  appreciate 
its  effective  truth  and  nature,  we  should  place  Perdita  beside  some 
of  the  nymphs  of  Arcadia,  or  the  Cloris'  and  Sylvias  of  the  Italian 
pastorals,  who,  however  graceful  in  themselves,  when  opposed  to 
Perdita,  seem  to  melt  away  into  mere  poetical  abstractions : — as,  in 
Spenser,  the  fair  but  fictitious  Florimel,  which  the  subtle  enchantress 
had  moulded  out  of  snow,  "  vermeil  tinctured,"  and  informed  with 
an  airy  spirit,  that  knew  "  all  wiles  of  woman's  wits,"  fades  and 
dissolves  away,  when  placed  next  to  the  real  Florimel,  in  her  warm, 
breathing,  human  loveliness. 

Perdita  does  not  appear  till  the  fourth  act,  and  the  whole  of  the 
character  is  developed  in  the  course  of  a  single  scene  (the  third), 
with  a  completeness  of  effect  which  leaves  nothing  to  be  required — 
nothing  to  be  supplied.  She  is  first  introduced  in  the  dialogue 
between  herself  and  Florizel,  where  she  compares  her  own  lowly 
state  to  his  princely  rank,  and  expresses  her  fears  of  the  issue  of 
their  unequal  attachment.  With  all  her  timidity  and  her  sense  of 
the  distance  which  separates  her  from  her  lover,  she  breathes  not  a 
single  word  which  could  lead  us  to  impugn  either  her  delicacy  or 
her  dignity. 


These  your  unusual  weeds  to  each  part  of  you 
Do  give  a  life — no  shepherdess,  but  Flora 
Peering  in  April's  front;  this  your  sheep-shearing 
Is  as  the  meeting  of  the  petty  gods, 
And  you  the  queen  on't. 


PERDITA. 

Sir,  my  gracious  lord, 

To  chide  at  your  extremes  it  not  becomes  me ; 

O  pardon  that  I  name  them:  your  Jiigh  self, 

The  gracious  mark  o'  the  land,  you  have  obscured 

With  a  swain's  bearing;  and  me,  poor  lowly  maid, 

Most  goddess-like  prank'd  up  : — but  that  our  feasts 

In  every  mess  have  folly,  and  the  feeders 


P  E  R  D  I  T  A  .  97 


Digest  it  with  a  custom,  I  should  blush 
To  see  you  so  attired  ;  sworn,  I  think, 
To  show  myself  a  glass. 


The    impression    of    her    perfect    beauty    and    airy    elegance    of 
demeanor  is  conveyed  in  two  exquisite  passages : — 


What  you  do 
Still  betters  what  is  done.     When  you  speak,  sweet, 
1  'd  have  you  do  it  ever.     When  you  sing, 
I  'd  have  you  buy  and  sell  so ;   so  give  alms. 
Pray  so,  and  for  the  ordering  your  affairs 
To  sing  them  too.     When  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that ;  move  still,  still  so,  and  own 
No  other  function. 


I  take  thy  hand  ;  this  hand 
As  soft  as  dove's  down,  and  as  white  as  it ; 
Or  Ethiopian's  tooth,  or  the  fann'd  snow. 
That's  bolted  by  the  northern  blasts  twice  o'er. 


The  artless  manner  in  which  her  innate  nobility  of  soul  shines 
forth  through  her  pastoral  disguise,  is  thus  brought  before  us  at 
once  : — 

This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  green  sward ;  nothing  she  does  or  seems, 
But  smacks  of  something  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  this  place. 

Her  natural    loftiness  of  spirit   breaks    out  where  she    is    menaced 

and  reviled  by  the  King,  as  one  whom  his  son  has  degraded  himself 

by  merely  looking  on ;  she  bears   the    royal    frown  without  quailing ; 

but  the  moment   he    is    gone,  the    innnediate    recollection    of  herself, 

and   of    her    humble    state,   of    her    hapless    love,  is    full  of  beauty, 

tenderness,  and  nature  : — 

in 


98  P  E  11  D  I  T  A  . 

Even  here  undone ! 
I  was  much  afcard :  for  once  or  twice, 
I  was  about  to  speak;  and  tell  him  plainly 
The  self-same  sun,  that  shines  upon  his  court, 
Hides  not  his  visage  from  our  cottage,  but 
Looks  on  alike. 


Wi  1  't  please  you,   Sir,  be  gone  ? 
I  told  you  what  would  come  of  this.     Beseech  you, 
Of  your  own  state  take  care ;  this  dream  of  mine- 
Being  now  awake — I  '11  queen  it  no  inch  further, 
But  milk  my  ewes,  and  weep. 

How  often  have  I  told  you  't  would  be  thus! 
How  often  said,  my  dignity  would  last 
But  till  'twere  known  ! 


FLORIZEL. 

It  cannot  fail,  but  by 
The  violation  of  my  faith ;  and  then 
Let  nature  crush  the  sides  o'  the  earth  together 
And  mar  the  seeds  within !     Lift  up  thy  looks. 


Not  for  Bohemia,  nor  the  pomp  that  may 

Be  thereat  glean'd  !  for  all  the  sun  sees,  or 

The  close  earth  wombs,  or  the  profound  seas  hide 

In  unknown  fathoms,  will  I  break  my  oatli 

To  thee,  my  fair  beloved ! 


Perdita  has  another  characteristic,  which  lends  to  the  poetical 
delicacy  of  the  delineation  a  certain  strength  and  moral  elevation, 
which  is  peculiarly  striking.  It  is  that  sense  of  truth  and  rectitude, 
that  upright  simplicity  of  mind,  which  disdains  all  crooked  and 
indirect  means,  which  would  not  stoop  for  an  instance  to  dissemblance, 
and  is  mingled  with  a  noble  confidence  in  her  love  and  in  her 
lover.  In  this  spirit  is  her  answer  to  Camilla,  who  says,  courtier- 
like,— 


I'  E  R  D  1  T  A  .  99 

Besides,  you  know 
Prosperity  's  the  very  bond  of  love ; 
Wiiose  fresh  complexion,  and  whose  heart  together, 
Affliction  alters. 


To  which  she  replies, — 


One  of  these  is  true; 
I  think,  affliction  may  subdue  the  cheek, 
But  not  take  in  the  mind. 


In  that  elegant  scene  where  she  receives  the  guests  at  the  sheep- 
shearing,  and  distributes  the  flowers,  there  is  in  the  full  flow  of  the 
poetry,  a  most  beautiful  and  striking  touch  of  individual  character : 
but  here  it  is  impossible  to  mutilate  the  dialogue. 


Reverend  sirs, 
For  you  there's  rosemary  and  rue ;  these  keep 
Seeming  and  savor  all  the  winter  long; 
Grace  and  remembrance  be  to  you  both, 
And  welcome  to  our  shearing ! 

POLIXENES. 

Shepherdess 
(A  fair  one  are  you),  well  you  fit  our  ages 
With  flowers  of  winter. 


Sir,  the  year  growing  ancient, 
Not  yet  on  summer's  death,  nor  on  the  birth 
Of  trembling  winter,  the  fairest  flowers  o'  the  season 
Are  our  carnations,  and  streaked  gilliflowers, 
Which  some  call  nature's  bastards :  of  that  kind 
Our  rustic  garden's  barren ;  and  I  care  not 
To  get  slips  of  them. 

FOLIXENES. 

Wherefore,  gentle  maiden, 
Do  you  neglect  them  ? 


100  PERDITA 


For  I  have  heard  it  said, 
There  is  an  art,  which,  in  their  piedncss,  shares 
With  great  creating  nature. 

POLIXENES. 

Say  there  be ; 
Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean 
But  nature  makes  that  mean  ;  so  o'er  that  art 
Whicli,  you  say,  adds  to  nature,  is  an  art 
That  nature  makes.     You  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 
A  gentle  scion  to  the  wildest  stock  ; 
And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 
By  bud  of  nobler  race.     This  is  an  art 
Which  does  mend  nature,  change  it  rather ;  but 
The  art  itself  is  nature. 

PERDITA. 

So  it  is. 

I'OLIXENES. 

Then  make  your  garden  rich  in  gilliflowers, 
And  do  not  call  them  bastards. 


I  '11  not  put 
The  dibble  in  earth  to  set  one  slip  of  them  ; 
No  more  than  were  I  painted,  I  would  wish 
This  youth  should  say  't  were  well. 

It  has  been  well  remarked  of  this  passage,  that  Perdita  does  not 
attempt  lo  answer  the  reasoning  of  Polixenes :  she  gives  up  the 
argmnent,  but,  woman-like,  retains  her  own  opinion,  or  rather,  her 
sense  of  right,  unshaken  by  his  sophistry.  She  goes  on  in  a  strain 
of  poetry,  which  comes  over  the  soul  like  music  and  fragrance 
mingled :  we  seem  to  inhale  the  blended  odors  of  a  thousand 
flowers,  till  the  sense  faints  with  their  sweetness;  and  she  concludes 
with  a  touch  of  passionate  sentiment,  which  melts  into  the  very 
heart : — 


P  E  R  D  I  T  A  .  ^^' 

O  Proserpina '. 
For  the  flowers  now,  that,  frighted,  thou  let'st  fall 
From  Dis's  wagon!  daffodils, 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty ;  violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes. 
Or  Cytherea's  breath;  pale  primroses. 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength,  a  malady 
Most  incident  to  maids ;  bold  oxlips,  and 
The  crown  imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds. 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one !     O,  these  I  lack, 
To  make  you  garlands  of;  and  my  sweet  friend 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er. 


FLORIZEL. 

What !   like  a  corse  ? 

PERDITA. 

No,  like  a  bank,  for  Love  to  He  and  play  on ; 
Not  like  a  corse :  or  if,— not  to  be  buried, 
But  quick,  and  in  mine  arms ! 

This  love  of  ti-uth,  this  conscientiousness,  which  forms  so  distinct  a 
feature  in  the  character  of  Perdita,  and  mingles  with  its    pictui'esque 
delicacy  a  certain  firmness  and    dignity,  is  maintained    consistently  to 
the  last.     When  the  two  lovers  fly  together  from  Bohemia,  and  take 
refuge  in   the    court    of  Leontes,  the  real    father    of  Perdita,  Florizel 
presents  himself  before  the    king    with    a    feigned  tale,  in  which    he 
has  been  artfully    instructed   by  the    old    counsellor    Camillo.     During 
this  scene,  Perdita  does   not    utter    a    word.     In    the    strait   in  which 
they  are  placed,  she  cannot  deny  the    story  which   Florizel    relates- 
she  will  not  confirm  it.     Her  silence,  in  spite  of  all  the  compliments 
and   greetings  of  Leontes,  has    a   peculiar    and    characteristic    grace ; 
and,  at   the °  conclusion   of    the    scene,  when    they   are    betrayed,  the 
truth    bursts  from   her    as    if    instinctively    and   she    exclaims,   with 
emotion, — 


102  P  E  R  D  1  T  A  . 

Tlie  heavens  set  spies  upon  us — will  not  have 
Our  contract  celebrated. 


After  this  scene,  Perdita   says  very  little.     The   description   of  her 
grief,  while  listening   to  the  relation  of  her  mother's  death, — 

"  One  of  the  prettiest  touches  of  all,  was,  when  at  the  relation  of  the  queen's 
death,  with  the  manner  how  she  came  by  it,  how  attentiveness  wounded  her 
daughter :  till,  from  one  sign  of  dolor  to  another,  she  did,  with  an  alas  I  I  would 
fain  say,  bleed  tears :  " — 

her  deportment,  too,  as  she  stands  gazing  on  the  statue  of  Hermione, 
fixed  in  wonder,  admiration,  and  sorrow,  as  if  she  too  were  marble, — 

O  royal  piece ! 
There's  magic  in  thy  majesty,  which  has 
From  thy  admiring  daughter  ta'en  the  spirits. 
Standing  like  stone  beside  thee  i 

are   touches   of   character   conveyed    indirectly,  and    which   serve   to 
give  a  more  finished  effect  to  this  beautiful  picture. 


VIOLA. 


As  the  innate  dignity  of  Perdita  pierces  through  her  rustic 
disguise,  so  the  exquisite  refinement  of  Viola  triumphs  over  her 
masculine  attire.  Viola  is,  perhaps,  in  a  degree  less  elevated  and 
ideal  than  Perdita,  but  with  a  touch  of  sentiment  more  profound 
and  heart-stirring ;  she  is  "  deep-learned  in  the  lore  of  love," — at 
least  theoretically, — and  speaks  as  masterly  on  the  subject  as  Perdita 
does   of  flowers.. 


DUKE. 

How  dost  thou  like  this  tune? 

VIOLA. 


And   again, 


It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  love  is  thron'd. 


If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame, 
With  such  a  suffering,  such  a  deadly  life- 
In  your  denial  I  would  find  no  sense, 
I  would  not  understand  it. 


Why  what  would  you  do? 


VIOLA. 


Make  me  a  willow  cahin  at  your  gate, 
And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house  ; 


104  \    1  u  L  A  . 

Write  loyal  cantons  *  of  contemned  love, 
And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  night. 
Holla  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills, 
And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 
Cry  out,  Olivia  !  O  you  should  not  rest 
Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth, 
But  you  should  pity  me. 

OLIVIA. 

You  might  do  much. 

The  situation  and  the  character  of  Viola  have  been  censured  for 
their  want  of  consistency  and  probability ;  it  is  therefore  worth 
while  to  examine  how  far  this  criticism  is  true.  As  for  hor 
situation  in  the  drama  (of  which  she  is  properly  the  heroine), 
it  is  shortly  this.  She  is  shipwrecked  on  the  coast  of  Illyria : 
she  is  alone  and  without  protection  in  a  strange  country.  She 
wishes  to  enter  into  the  service  of  the  Countess  Olivia ;  but  she 
is  assured  that  this  is  impossible ;  "  for  the  lady  having  recently 
lost  an  only  and  beloved  brother,  has  abjured  the  sight  of  men, 
has  shut  herself  up  in  her  palace,  and  will  admit  no  kind  of 
suit."  In  this  perplexity,  Viola  remembers  to  have  heard  her 
father  speak  with  praise  and  admiration  of  Orsino,  the  Duke  of 
the  country;  and  having  ascertained  that  he  is  not  married,  and 
that  therefore  his  court  is  not  a  proper  asylum  for  her  in  her 
feminine  character,  she  attires  herself  in  the  disguise  of  a  page, 
as  the  best  protection  against  uncivil  comments,  till  she  can  gain 
some   tidings   of  her   brother. 

If  we  carry  our  thoughts  back  to  a  romantic  and  chivalrous 
age,  there  is  surely  sufficient  probability  here  for  all  the  purposes 
of  poetry.  To  pursue  the  thread  of  Viola's  destiny ; — she  is 
engaged  in  the  service  of  the  Duke,  whom  she  finds  "  fancy-sick" 
for  the  love  of  Olivia.  We  are  left  to  infer  (for  so  it  is  hinted 
in  the  first  scene),  that  this  Duke — who  with  his  accomplishments, 
and    his    personal    attractions,    his    taste    for    music,  his    chivalrous 

*  i    e.  r.anzons,  songs. 


VIOLA.  105 

tenderness,  and  his  unrequited  love,  is  really  a  very  fascinating 
and  poetical  personage,  though  a  little  passionate  and  fantastic — 
had  already  made  some  impression  on  Viola's  imagination ;  and 
M'hen  she  comes  to  play  the  confidante,  and  to  be  loaded  with 
favors  and  kindness  in  her  assumed  character,  that  she  should  be 
touched  by  a  passion  made  up  of  pity,  admiration,  gratitude,  and 
tenderness,  does  not,  I  think,  in  any  way  detract  from  the  genuine 
sweetness  and  delicacy  of  her  character,  for  "she  never  told  her 
love." 

Now  all  this,  as  the  critic  wisely  observes,  may  not  present  a 
very  just  picture  of  life ;  and  it  may  also  fail  to  impart  any 
moral  lesson  for  the  especial  profit  of  well-bred  young  ladies : 
but  is  it  not  in  truth  and  in  nature  ?  Did  it  ever  fail  to  charm 
or  to  interest,  to  seize  on  the  coldest  fancy,  to  touch  the  most 
insensible   heart  ? 

Viola  then  is  the  chosen  favorite  of  the  enamored  Duke,  and 
becomes  his  messenger  to  Olivia,  and  the  interpreter  of  his 
sufferings  to  that  inaccessible  beauty.  In  her  character  of  a 
youthful  page,  she  attracts  the  favor  of  Olivia,  and  excites  the 
jealousy  of  her  lord.  The  situation  is  critical  and  delicate;  but 
how  exquisitely  is  the  character  of  Viola  fitted  to  her  part, 
carrying  her  through  the  ordeal  with  all  the  inward  and  spiritual 
grace  of  modesty !  What  beautiful  propriety  in  the  distinction 
drawn  between  Rosalind  and  Viola !  The  wild  sweetness,  the 
frolic  humor  which  sports  free  and  unblamed  amid  the  shades  of 
Ardennes,  would  ill  become  Viola,  whose  playfulness  is  assumed 
as  part  of  her  disguise  as  a  court  page,  and  is  guarded  by  the 
strictest  delicacy.  She  has  not,  like  Rosalind,  a  saucy  enjoyment 
in  her  ovm  incognito ;  her  disguise  does  not  sit  so  easily  upon 
her ;  her  heart  does  not  beat  freely  under  it.  As  in  the  old 
ballad,  where  "  Sweet  William"  is  detected  weeping  in  secret 
over  her  "  man's  array, "  *  so  in  Viola,  a  sweet  consciousness 
of  her  feminine  nature  is  for  ever  breaking  through  her 
masquerade  : — 


Percy's  Reliques,  vol.  iii. — see  the  ballad  of  the  "Lady  turning  Serving  Man." 

14 


lOG  VIOLA. 

And  on  licr  cheek  is  ready  with  a  blush, 
Modest  as  morning,  when  she  coldly  eyes 
Tlie  youthful  Phoebus. 

She  plays  her  part  well,  hut  never  forgets,  nor  allows  us  to 
forget,   that    she   is   playing   a  part. 

OLIVIA. 

Are  you  a  comedian  ? 

VIOLA 

No,  my  profound  heart!  and  5'et  by  the  very  fangs  of  malice  I  swear,  I  am 
not  that  I  play ! 

And   thus   she   comments   on  it : — 

Disguise,  I  see  thou  art  wickedness. 
Wherein  the  pregnant  enemy  does  much  ; 
How  easy  is  it  for  the  proper  false 
In  women's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms ! 
Alas !  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we. 

The  feminine  cowardice  of  Viola,  which  will  not  allow  her  even 
to  affect  a  courage  becoming  her  attire, — her  horror  at  the  idea 
of  drawing  a  sword,  is  very  natural  and  characteristic ;  and  produces 
a  most  humorous  effect,  even  at  the  very  moment  it  charms  and 
interests  us. 

Contrasted  with  the  deep,  silent,  patient  love  of  Viola  for  the 
Duke,  we  have  the  lady-like  wilfulness  of  Olivia;  and  her  sudden 
passion,  or  rather  fancy,  for  the  disguised  page,  takes  so  beautiful  a 
coloring  of  poetry  and  sentiment,  that  we  do  not  think  her  forward. 
Olivia  is  like  a  princess  of  romance,  and  has  all  the  privileges  of 
one ;  she  is,  like  Portia,  high  born  and  high  bred,  mistress  over  her 
servants — but  not  like  Portia,  "  queen  o'er  herself."  She  has  never 
in  her  life  been  opposed ;  the  first  contradiction,  therefore,  rouses  all 
the  woman  in  her,  and  turns  a  caprice  into  a  headlong  passion ;  yet 
she  apologizes  for  herself. 


VIOLA.  107 

I  have  said  too  much  unto  a  heart  of  stone, 
And  laid  mine  honor  too  unchary  out ; 
There's  something  in  me  that  reproves  my  fault; 
But  such  a  headstrong  potent  fault  it  is, 
That  it  but  mocks   reproof. 

And    in    the    midst    of    her    self-abandonment,    never    allows    us    to 
contemn,  even  while  we  pity  her  : — 

What  shall  you  ask  of  me  that  I  '11  deny. 
That  honor,  saved,  may  upon  asking  give  ? 

The  distance  of  rank  which  separates  the  Countess  trom  the 
youthful  page — the  real  sex  of  Viola — the  dignified  elegance  of 
Olivia's  deportment,  except  where  passion  gets  the  better  of  her 
pride — her  consistent  coldness  toAvards  the  Duke — the  description  of 
that  "  smooth,  discreet,  and  stable  bearing"  with  w-hich  she  rules  her 
household — her  generous  care  for  her  steward  Malvolio,  in  the  midst 
of  her  own  distress, — all  these  circumstances  raise  Olivia  in  our 
fancy,  and  render  her  caprice  for  the  page  a  source  of  amusement 
and  interest,  not  a  subject  of  reproach.  Twelfth  JVight  is  a  genuine 
comedy  : — a  perpetual  spring  of  the  gayest  and  the  sweetest  fancies. 
In  artificial  society  men  and  women  are  divided  into  castes  and 
classes,  and  it  is  rarely  that  extremes  in  character  or  manners  can 
approximate.  To  blend  into  one  harmonious  picture  the  utmost 
grace  and  refinement  of  sentiment,  and  the  broadest  effects  of  humor ; 
the  most  poignant  wit,  and  the  most  indulgent  benignity ; — in  short 
to  bring  before  us  in  the  same  scene,  Viola  and  Olivia,  with  Malvolio, 
and  Sir  Toby,  belonged  only  to  Nature  and  to  Shakspeare. 


OPHELIA. 


A  woMAN^s    affections,   however  strong,    are   sentiments,  when    they 
run  smooth  ;  and  become  passions  only  when  opposed. 

In  Juliet  and  Helena,  love  is  depicted  as  a  passion,  properly  so 
called;  that  is,  a  natural  impulse,  throbbing  in  the  heart's  blood, 
and  mingling  with  the  very  somxes  of  life  3— a  sentiment  more  or 
less  modified  by  the  imagination;  a  strong  abiding  principle  and 
motive,  excited  by  resistance,  acting  upon  the  will,  animating  all  the 
other  faculties,  and  again  iniluenced  by  them.  This  is  the  most 
complex  aspect  of  love,  and  in  these  two  characters,  it  is  depicted 
in  colors  at  once  the  most  various,  the  most  intense,  and  the  most 
brilUant. 

In  Viola  and  Perdita,  love,  being  less  complex,  appears  more 
refined;  more  a  sentiment  than  a  passion— a  compound  of  impulse 
and  fancy,  while  the  reflective  powers  and  moral  energies  are  more 
faintly  developed.  The  same  remark  applies  also  to  Julia  and 
Silvia,  in  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  and,  in  a  greater  degree, 
to  Ilermia  and  Helena  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  In  the 
two  latter,  though  perfectly  discriminated,  love  takes  the  visionary 
fanciful  cast  which  belongs  to  the  whole  piece;  it  is  scarcely  a 
passion  or  a  sentiment,  but  a  dreamy  enchantment,  a  reverie,  which 
a  fairy  spell  dissolves  or  fixes  at  pleasure. 

But  there  was  yet  another  possible  modification  of  the  sentiment, 
as  combined  with  female  nature  ;  and  this  Shakspeare  has  shown  to 
us.  He  has  portrayed  two  beings,  in  whom  all  intellectual  and 
moral  energy  is  in  a  manner  latent,  if  existing  ;  in  whom  love  is  an 
unconscious  impulse,  and  imagination  lends  the  external  charm  and 
hue,  not  the  internal  power ;  in  whom  the  feminine  character  appears 


no  OPHELIA. 

resolved  into  its  very  elementary  principles — as  modesty,  grace,* 
tenderness.  Without  these  a  woman  is  no  woman,  but  a  thing  which, 
luckily,  wants  a  name  yet ;  with  these,  though  every  other  faculty 
were  passive  or  deficient,  she  might  still  be  herself.  These  are  the 
inherent  qualities  with  which  God  sent  us  into  the  world  :  they 
may  be  perverted  by  a  bad  education — they  may  be  obscured  by 
harsh  and  evil  destinies — they  may  be  overpowered  by  the  development 
of  some  particular  mental  power,  the  predominance  of  some  passion ; 
— but  they  are  never  wholly  crushed  out  of  the  woman's  soul,  while 
it  retains  those  faculties  which  render  it  responsible  to  its  Creator. 
Shakspeare  then  has  shown  us  that  these  elemental  feminine  qualities, 
modesty,  grace,  tenderness,  when  expanded  under  genial  influences, 
suffice  to  constitute  a  perfect  and  happy  human  creature :  such  is 
Miranda.  When  thrown  alone  amid  harsh  and  adverse  destinies, 
and  amid  the  trammels  and  corruptions  of  society,  without  the 
energy  to  resist,  or  w^ill  to  act,  or  strength  to  endure,  the  end 
must  needs  be  desolation. 

Ophelia — poor  Ophelia  !  0  far  too  soft,  too  good,  too  fair,  to  be 
cast  among  the  briers  of  this  working-day  world,  and  fall  and  bleed 
upon  the  thorns  of  life  !  What  shall  be  said  of  her  ?  for  eloquence 
is  mute  before  her  !  Like  a  strain  of  sad  sweet  jmisic  which  comes 
floating  by  us  on  the  wings  of  night  and  silence,  and  which  we 
rather  feel  than  hear — like  the  exhalation  of  the  violet  dying  even 
upon  the  sense  it  charms — like  the  snow-flake  dissolved  in  air  before 
it  has  caught  a  stain  of  earth — like  the  light  surf  severed  from  the 
billow,  which  a  breath  disperses — such  is  the  character  of  Ophelia:  so 
exquisitely  delicate,  it  seems  as  if  a  touch  would  profane  it  ;  so 
sanctified  in  our  thoughts  by  the  last  and  worst  of  human  woes,  that 
we  scarcely  dare  to  consider  it  too  deeply.  The  love  of  Ophelia, 
which  she  never  once  confesses,  is  like  a  secret  which  we  have  stolen 
from  her,  and  which  ought  to  die  upon  our  hearts  as  upon  her  own. 
Her  sorrow   asks   not  words  but  tears  j  and  her  madness  has  precisely 

*  Ey  this  word,  as  used  here,  I  would  be  understood  to  mean  that  inexpressible 
something  within  the  soul,  which  tends  to  the  good,  the  beautiful,  the  true,  and  is 
the  antipodes  to  the  vulgar,  the  violent,  and  the  false  ;— that  which  we  see  diffused 
externally  over  the  form  and  movements,  where  there  is  perfect  innocence  and 
unconsciousness,  as  in  children. 


OPHELIA.  Ill 

the  same  effect  that  would  be  produced  by  the  spectacle  of  real  insanity, 
if  brought  before  us  :  we  feel  inclined  to  turn  away,  and  veil  our 
eyes  in  reverential  pity,  and  too  painful  sympathy. 

Beyond  every  character  that  Shakspeare  has  drawn  (Hamlet  alone 
excepted),  that  of  Ophelia  makes  us  forget  the  poet  in  his  own 
creation.  Whenever  we  bring  her  to  mind,  it  is  with  the  same 
exclusive  sense  of  her  real  existence,  without  reference  to  the 
wondrous  power  which  called  her  into  life.  The  effect  (and  what  an 
effect !)  is  produced  by  means  so  simple,  by  strokes  so  few,  and  so 
unobtrusive,  that  we  take  no  thought  of  them.  It  is  so  purely 
natural  and  unsophisticated,  yet  so  profound  in  its  pathos,  that,  as 
Hazlitt  observes,  it  takes  us  back  to  the  old  ballads  ;  we  forget  that, 
in  its  perfect  artlessness,  it  is  the  supreme  and  consummate  triumph 
of  art. 

The  situation  of  Ophelia  in  the  story*  is  that  of  a  young  girl 
who,  at  an  early  age,  is  brought  from  a  life  of  privacy  into  the  circle 
of  a  court — a  court  such  as  we  read  of  in  those  early  times,  at  once 
rude,  magnificent  and  corrupted.  She  is  placed  immediately  about 
the  person  of  the  queen,  and  is  apparently  her  favorite  attendant. 
The  affection  of  the  wicked  queen  for  this  gentle  and  innocent 
creature,  is  one  of  those  beautiful  redeeming  touches,  one  of  those 
penetrating  glances  into  the  secret  springs  of  natural  and  feminine 
feeling,  which  we  find  only  in  Shakspeare.  Gertrude,  who  is  not  so 
wholly  abandoned  but  that  there  remains  within  her  heart  some  sense 
of  the  virtue  she  has  forfeited,  seems  to  look  with  a  kind  yet 
melancholy  complacency  on  the  lovely  being  she  has  destined  for  the 
bride  of  her  son  ;  and  the  scene  in  which  she  is  introduced  as 
scattering  flowers  on  the  grave  of  Ophelia,  is  one  of  those  effects  of 
contrast  in  poetry,  in  character  and  in  feeling,  at  once  natural  and 
unexpected  ;  which  fill  the  eye,  and  make  the  heart  swell  and  tremble 
within  itself — like  the  nightingales  singing  in  the  grove  of  the  Furies 
in  Sophocles.f 

*  i.  e.  In  the  story  of  the  drama  :  for  in  the  original  "  History  of  Amleth  tlie 
Dane,"  from  which  Shakspeare  drew  his  materials,  there  is  a  woman  introduced  who 
is  employed  as  an  instrument  to  seduce  Amleth,  but  not  even  the  germ  of  the 
character  of  Ophelia 

t  In  the  (Edipus  Coloneus. 


11-^  OPHELIA. 

Again,  in  the  father  of  Ophelia,  the  Lord  Chamberlain   Polouius — 
the  shrewd,  wary,  subtle,  pompous,  garrulous  old  courtier — have  we  not 
the  very  man  Mho  would  send  his  son  into  the  world  to  see  all,  learn 
all  it  could  teach  of  good  and  evil,  but  keep  his  only  daughter  as  far  as 
possible  from    every  taint  of  that  world  he  knew  so    well  1     So   that 
when   she   is  brought  to    the    court,  she  seems,   in  her  loveliness  and 
perfect  purity,  like  a  seraph  that  had  wandered  out  of  bounds,  and  yet 
breathed    on    earth   the    air   of  paradise.      When   her   father   and  her 
brother  find  it  necessary  to  warn  her  simplicity,  give  her  lessons   of 
worldly   wisdom,    and    instruct   her   "  to    be    scanter   of    her    maiden 
presence,"  for  that  Hamlet's  vows  of  love  "  but  breathe  like  sanctified 
and  pious  bonds,  the  better  to  beguile,"  we  feel  at  once  that  it  comes 
too  late ;  for  from  the  moment  she  appears  on  the  scene  amid  the  dark 
conflict   of  crime,   and   vengeance,  and  supernatural  terrors,  we  know 
what  must  be  her  destiny.     Once,  at  JSIurano,  I  saw  a  dove  caught  in 
a  tempest ;  perhaps  it  was  young,  and  either  lacked  strength  of  wing 
to  reach   its  home,  or  the  instinct  which  teaches  to  shun  the  broodinfr 
storm ;  but  so   it  was — and  I  watched  it,  pitying,  as  it   flitted,  poor 
bird  !    hither  and  thither,  with   its  silver  pinions  shining  against   the 
1,1a -^r   thunder-cloud,   till,    after    a   few   giddy   whirls,   it   fell    blinded, 
affrighted,   and    bewildered,   into    the   turbid  wave   beneath,   and   was 
swallowed  up   for  ever.     It  reminded  me  then  of  the  fate  of  Ophelia ; 
and  now  when  I  think  of  her,  I  see  again  before  me  that  poor  dove, 
beating   with    weary   wing,   bewildered    amid   the    storm.      It   is    the 
helplessness    of    Ophelia,    arising    merely    from    her    innocence,    and 
pictured  without  any  indication  of  weakness,  which  melts  us  with  such 
profound  pity.     She  is  so  young,  that  neither  her  mind  nor  her  person 
have  attained  maturity ;  she   is  not  aware  of  the  nature   of  her   OAvn 
feelings;  they  are  prematurely  developed  in  their  full  force  before  she 
has   strength   to  bear   them  ;    and    love    and   grief  together  rend    and 
shatter  the  frail  texture  of  her  existence,  like  the  burning  fluid  poured 
into  a  crystal  vase.     She  says  very  little,  and  what  she  does  say  seems 
rather  intended  to  hide  than  to  reveal  the  emotions  of  her  heart ;  yet 
in   those   few  words   we    are    made   as   perfectly  acquainted  with   her 
character,  and  with  what  is  passing  in  her  mind,  as  if  she  had  thrown 
forth  her  soul  with  all  the  glowing  eloquence  of  Juliet.     Passion  with 
Juliet  seems   innate,  a   part  of    her   being,  "  as   dwells   the   gathered 


OPHELIA.  113 

lighlnin<5  in  the  cloud;"  and  we  never  fancy  her  but  with  the  dark 
splendid  eyes  and  Titian-like  complexion  of  the  south.  While  in 
Ophelia  we  recognize  as  distinctly  the  pensive,  fair-haired,  blue-eyed 
daughter  of  the  north,  whose  heart  seems  to  vibrate  to  the  passion  she 
has  inspired,  more  conscious  of  being  loved  than  of  loving  ;  and  yet, 
alas !  loving  in  the  silent  depths  of  her  young  heart  far  more  than  she 
is  loved. 

When  her  brother  warns  her  against  Hamlet's  importunities — 

For  Hamlet,  and  the  trifling  of  his  favor, 
Hold  it  a  fashion,  and  a  toy  of  blood, 
A  violet  in  the  youth  of  primy  nature, 
Forward  not  permanent,  sweet  not  lasting, 
The  perfume  and  the  suppliance  of  a  minute — 
No  more  ! 

she  replies  with  a  kind  of  half  consciousness — 

No  more  but  so  ? 

LAERTES. 

Think  it  no  more. 

He  concludes  his  admonition  with  that  most  beautiful  passage,  in 
which  the  soundest  sense,  the  most  excellent  advice,  is  conveyed  in  a 
strain  of  the  most  exquisite  poetry. 

The  chariest  maid  is  prodigal  enough, 
If  she  unmask  her  beauty  to  the  moon : 
Virtue  itself  'scapes  not  calumnious  strokes. 
The  canker  galls  the  infants  of  the  spring 
Too  oft  before  their  buttons  be  disclos'd : 
And  in  the  morn  and  liquid  dew  of  youth, 
Contagious  blastments  are  most  imminent. 

She  answers  with  the  &ame  modesty,  yet  with  a  kind  of  involuntary 
avowal,  that  his  fears  are  not  altogether  without  cause :  — 

I  shall  tlie  effect  of  this  good  lesson  keep 

As  watchman  to  my  heart.     But,  good  my  brother, 
15 


114  U  i>  li  i-:  L  1  A  . 

Do  not,  :i^  some  ungracious  pastors  do, 
Show  me  the  steep  and  thorny  way  to  heaven  ; 
Whilst,  like  the  pufF'd  and  reckless  libertine, 
Himself  the  primrose  path  of  dalliance  treads. 
And  recks  not  his  own  read.* 

Vv'hen  her  father,  immediately  afterwards,  catechises  her  on  the  same 
subject,  he  extorts  from  her,  in  short  sentences,  uttered  with  bashful 
reluctance,  the  confession  of  Hamlet's  love  for  her,  but  not  a  word  of 
her  love  for  him.  The  w^hole  scene  is  managed  with  inexpressible 
delicacy :  it  is  one  of  those  instances,  common  in  Shakspeare,  in 
which  we  are  allowed  to  perceive  what  is  passing  in  the  mind  of  a 
person,  without  any  consciousness  on  their  part.  Only  Ophelia  herself 
is  unaware  that  while  she  is  admitting  the  extent  of  Hamlet's  courtship, 
she  is  also  betraying  how  deep  is  the  impression  it  has  made,  how  entire 
the  love  with  which  it  is  returned. 

rOLONIUS. 

What  is  between  you  ?  give  me  up  the  truth  ! 

Ophelia. 

He  hath,  my  lord,  of  late,  made  many  tenders 
Of  his  afTection  to  me. 


Affection  !  poh  !  you  speak  like  a  green  girl, 
Unsifted  in  such  perilous  circumstances. 
Do  you  believe  his  tenders,  as  you  call  them  ? 

OPHELIA. 

I  do  not  know,  my  lord,  what  I  should  think. 


Marry,  El  teach  you :  think  yourself  a  baby ; 
That  you  have  taken  these  tenders  for  true  pay 
Which  are  not  sterling.     Tender  yourself  more  dearly  ; 

*  "  And  recks  not  his  own  read,"  /.  e.  heeds  not  his  own  lesson. 


OPHELIA.  115 


Or  (not  to  crack  the  wind  of  the  poor  phrase, 
Wronging  it  thus)  you'll  tender  me  a  fool. 


My  lord,  he  hath  importun'd  me  with  love 
In  honorable  fashion. 

POLONIUS. 

Ay,  fashion  you  may  call  it ;  go  to,  go  to. 


And  hath  given  countenance  to  his  speech,  my  lord, 
With  almost  all  the  holy  vows  of  heaven. 

POLONIUS. 

Ay,  springes  to  catch  woodcocks. 

This  is  for  all : 

I  would  not,  in  plain  terms,  from  this  time  forth 
Have  you  so  slander  any  moment's  leisure 
As  to  give  words  or  talk  with  the  Lord  Hamlet, 
Look  to't,  I  charge  you  :  come  your  ways. 


I  shall  obey,  my  lord. 

Besides  its  intrinsic  loveliness,  the  character  of  Ophelia  has  a 
relative  beauty  and  delicacy  when  considered  in  relation  to  that  of 
Hamlet,  which  is  .the  delineation  of  a  man  of  genius  in  contest  with 
the  powers  of  this  world.  The  weakness  of  volition,  the  instability 
of  purpose,  the  contemplative  sensibility,  the  subtlety  of  thouo-ht, 
always  shrinking  from  action,  and  always  occupied  in  "  thinkino-  too 
precisely  on  the  event,"  united  to  iinmense  intellectual  power,  render 
him  unspeakably  interesting :  and  yet  I  doubt  whether  any  woman, 
who  would  have  been  capable  of  understanding  and  appreciating  such 
a  man,  would  have  passionately  loved  him.  Let  us  for  a  moment  imagine 
any  one  of  Shakspeare's  most  beautiful  and  striking  female  characters 
in  immediate  connexion  with  Hamlet.  The  gentle  Desdemona  would 
never   have   despatched   her   household    cares    in    haste,   to    listen    to 


lia  OPHELIA. 

his  philosophical    speculations,  his  dark  conflicts  M-ith    his  own  spirit. 

Such  a  woman  as  Portia  would  have  studied  him  ;    Juliet  would  have 

pitied  him  ;    Rosalind  would    have  turned    him  over  with    a    smile  to 

the     melancholy    Jacques  ;     Beatrice    would     have     laughed    at    him 

outright  ;   Isabel  would   have  reasoned  with   him  ;    Miranda  could  but 

/  have  wondered  at  him  ;  but  Ophelia  loves  him.     Ophelia,  the  young, 

fair,    inexperienced    girl,     facile    to    every    impression,    fond    in     her 

\    simplicity,    and    credulous   in   her   innocence,  loves   Hamlet  ;  not  from 

I  what  he   is  in  himself,  but  for  that  which  appears  to  her — the  gentle, 

accomplished  prince,  upon  whom    she  has  been  accustomed  to  see  all 

eyes  fixed  in  hope  and  admiration,   "  the  expectancy  and  rose  of  the 

fair   state,"    the    star    of    the    court    in   which    she    moves,     the    first 

who  has  ever  whispered  soft  vows  in  her  ear:  and  what  can  be  more 

natural  ? 

But  is  it  not  singular,  that  while  no  one  entertains  a  doubt  of 
Ophelia's  love  for  Hamlet — though  never  once  expressed  by  herself,  or 
asserted  by  others,  in  the  whole  course  of  the  drama — yet  it  is 
a  subject  of  dispute  whether  Hamlet  loves  Ophelia,  though  she 
herself  allows  that  he  had  importuned  her  with  love,  and  "  had  given 
countenance  to  his  suit  with  almost  all  the  holy  vows  of  heaven  ;" 
although  in  the  letter  which  Polonius  intercepted,  Hamlet  declares 
that  he  loves  her  "  best,  O  most  best  !" — though  he  asserts  himself, 
with  the  wildest  vehemence, — 

I  lov'd  Ophelia  :  forty  tliousand  brothers 
Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  of  love, 
Make  up  my  sum  : 

— still  I  have  heard  the  question  canvassed  ;  I  have  even  heard  it 
denied  that  Hamlet  did  love  Ophelia.  The  author  of  the  finest 
remarks  1  have  yet  seen  on  the  play  and  character  of  Hamlet,  leans 
to  this  opinion.  As  the  observations  I  allude  to  are  contained  in 
a  periodical  publication,  and  may  not  be  at  hand  for  immediate 
reference,  I  shall  indulge  myself  (and  the  reader  no  less)  by  quoting 
the  opening  paragraphs  of  this  noble  piece  of  criticism,  upon  the 
principle,  and  for  the  reason  I  have  already  stated  in  the  introduction. 
"  We  take  up    a    play,    and    ideas  come  rolling    in    upon    us,   like 


OPHELIA.  117 

waves  impelled  by  a  strong  ^\ind.  There  is  in  the  ebo  and  flow  of 
Shakspeare's  soul  all  the  grandeur  of  a  mighty  operation  of  nature  ; 
and  when  we  think  or  speak  of  him,  it  should  be  with  humility 
where  we  do  not  understand,  and  a  conviction  that  it  is  rather  to  the 
narrowness  of  our  own  mind  than  to  any  failing  in  the  art  of  the  groat 
magician,  that  we  ought  to  attribute  any  sense  of  weakness  which 
may  assail  us  during  the  contemplation  of  his  created  worlds. 

"  Shakspeare  himself,  had  he  even  been  as  great  a  critic  as  a 
poet,  could  not  have  written  a  regular  dissertation  upon  Hamlet.  So 
ideal,  and  yet  so  real  an  existence,  could  have  been  shadowed  out 
only  in  the  colors  of  poetry.  When  a  character  deals  solely  or 
chiefly  with  this  world  and  its  events,  when  it  acts  and  is  acted 
upon  by  objects  that  have  a  pedpable  existence,  we  see  it  distinctly, 
as  if  it  were  cast  in  a  material  mould,  as  if  it  partook  of  the  fixed 
and  settled  lineaments  of  the  things  on  which  it  lavishes  its  sensibilities 
and  its  passions.  We  see  in  such  cases  the  vision  of  an  individual 
soul,  as  we  see  the  vision  of  an  individual  countenance.  We  can 
describe  both,  and  can  let  a  stranger  into  our  knowledge.  But  how 
tell  in  words,  so  pure,  so  fine,  so  ideal  an  abstraction  as  Hamlet  l 
We  can,  indeed,  figure  to  ourselves  generally  his  princely  form, 
that  outshone  all  others  in  manly  beauty,  and  adorn  it  with  the 
consummation  of  all  liberal  accomplishment.  We  can  behold  in  every 
look,  every  gesture,  every  motion,  the  future  king, — 

The  courtiers,  soldier's,  scholar's  eye,  tongue,  sword, 
Til'  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state  ; 
The  glass  of  fashion,  and  the  mould  of  form, 
Th'  observ'd  of  all  observers. 

"  But  when  we  would  penetrate  into  his  spirit,  meditate  on  those 
things  on  which  he  meditates,  accompany  him  even  unto  the  brink 
of  eternity,  fluctuate  with  him  on  the  ghastly  sea  of  despair,  soar 
with  him  into  the  purest  and  serenest  regions  of  human  thought, 
feel  with  him  the  curse  of  beholding  iniquity,  and  the  troubled  delight 
of  thinking  on  innocence,  and  gentleness,  and  beauty ;  come  with 
him   from   all   the   glorious    dreams   cherished    by    a    noble   spirit    in 


118  OPHELIA. 

the   halls  of  wisdom    and   philosophy,    of  a    sudden  into   the   gloomy 

courts  of  sin,    and  incest,    and    murder  ;    shudder  "with   him   over   the 

broken  and  shattered   fragments    of  all    the    fairest    creations    of    his 

fancy, — be    borne    with    him    at    once,   from    calm,    and    lofty,   and 

delighted  speculations,    into    the   very   heart  of  fear,   and   horror,  and 

tribulations, — have    the    agonies    and    the    guilt   of    our   mortal   world 

brought   into    immediate   contact   with   the   w^orld   beyond   the    grave, 

and  the  influence  of  an  awful  shadow'  hanging  for  ever  on  our  thoughts, 

— be  present  at  a  fearful  combat   between   all   the   stirred-up  passions 

of  humanity  in   the   soul  of  man,    a   combat    in  which    one    and    all 

of  these  passions  are  alternately  victorious  and  overcome ;  I  say,  that 

when  we    are   thus   placed   and   acted   upon,    how    is    it    possible   to 

draw  a  character  of  this  sublime  drama,    or   of  the   mysterious   being 

who    is    its    moving    spirit  ?      In   him,     his   character    and    situation, 

there  is   a  concentration  of  all  the  interests  that  belong  to  humanity'. 

There  is  scarcely  a  trait    of  frailty  or  of  grandeur,  which   may  have 

endeared    to  us    our  most  beloved  friends  in   real   life,  that  is  not  to 

be  found    in   Hamlet.     Undoubtedly  Shakspeare  loved  him  beyond  all 

his  other  creations.     Soon  as  he  appears  on  the  stage  we  are  satisfied  : 

v.l;i;i  absent  we  long   for   his  return.      This  is   the   only  play  which 

exists  almost  altogether  in  the  character  of  one  single  person.     Who 

ever  knew  a   Hamlet  in   real  life  ?    yet   who,  ideal    as   the   character 

is,  feels  not  its    reality  1     This    is    the   wonder.     We    love  him   not, 

we  think  of  him,  not  because  he  is  witty,  because  he  was  melancholy, 

because  he  was  filial;  but  we  love  him  because  he  existed  and  was 

himself.     This   is   the   smn   total   of    the   impression.     I  believe   that, 

of  every  other  character,    either   in   tragic    or    epic    poetry,  the   story 

makes  part  of  the  conception  ;  but  of  Hamlet,  the  deep  and  permanent 

interest  is  the  conception    of  himself.     This    seems  to  belong,  not   to 

the  character  being  more  perfectly  drawn,  but  to  there  being  a  more 

intense  conception   of   individual    human   life   than   perhaps  any  other 

human  composition.     Here    is  a  being   with  springs   of  thought,    and 

feeling,  and  action,  deeper    than  we  can  search.      These    springs  rise 

from    an    unknown    depth,    and    in    that    depth  there  seems    to    be    a 

oneness   of  being  which  we   cannot   distinctly  behold,   but  which  we 

believe  to   be   there  ;   and    thus    irreconcilable   circumstances,   floating 


OPHELIA.  119 

on  the  surface  of  his  actions,  have  not  the  effect  of  making  us  douht 
the  truth  of  the  general  picture."* 

This  is  all  most  admirable,  most  eloquent,  most  tiue  !  but  the  critic 
subsequently  declares,  that  "  there  is  nothing  in  Ophelia  which  could 
make  her  the  object  of  an  engrossing  passion  to  so  majestic  a 
spirit  as  Hamlet." 

Now,  though  it  be  with  reluctance,  and  even  considerable  mistrust 
of  myself,  that  I  differ  from  a  critic  who  can  thus  feel  and  write,  I  do 
not  think  so  : — I  do  think,  with  submission,  that  the  love  of  Hamlet 
for  Ophelia  is  depp,  is  real,  and  is  precisely  the  kind  of  love  which 
such  a  man   as  Hamlet  would   feel  for  such  a  woman   as  Ophelia. 

When  the  heathens  would  represent  their  Jove  as  clothed  in  all 
his  Olympian  terrors,  they  mounted  him  on  the  back  of  an  eagle,  and 
armed  him  with  the  lightnings  ;  but  when  in  Holy  Writ  the  Supreme 
Being  is  described  as  coming  in  his  glory.  He  is  upborne  on  the  wings 
of  cherubim,  and  his  emblem  is  the  dove.  Even  so  our  blessed 
religion,  which  has  revealed  deeper  mysteries  in  the  human  soul  than 
ever  were  dreamt  of  by  philosophy  till  she  went  hand-in-hand  with 
faith,  has  taught  us  to  pay  that  worship  to  the  symbols  of  purity  and 
innocence,  which  in  darker  times  was  paid  to  the  manifestations  of 
power  :  and  therefore  do  I  think  that  the  mighty  intellect,  the  capacious, 
soaring,  penetrating  genius  of  Hamlet  may  be  represented,  without 
detracting  from  its  grandeur,  as  reposing  upon  the  tender  virgin 
innocence  of  Ophelia,  with  all  that  deep  delight  with  which  a  superior 
nature  contemplates  the  goodness  which  is  at  once  perfect  in  itself, 
and  of  itself  unconscious.  That  Hamlet  regards  Ophelia  with  this 
kind  of  tenderness, — that  he  loves  her  with  a  love  as  intense  as  can 
belong  to  a  nature  in  which  there  is  (I  think)  much  more  of 
contemplation  and  sensibility  than  action  or  passion — is  the  feeling 
and   conviction  with  which   I  have  always   read  the   play  of  Hamlet. 

As  to  whether  the  mind  of  Hamlet  be,  or  be  not,  touched  with 
madness — this  is  another  point  at  issue  among  critics,  philosophers, 
ay,  and  physicians.  To  me  it  seems  that  he  is  not  so  far  disordered 
as  to  cease  to  be  a  responsible  human  being — that  were  too  pitiable  : 
but  rather  that  his  mind  is  shaken  from  its  equilibrium,  and  bewildered 

•  Blackwooa'3  Magazine,  vol.  ii. 


V20  U  P  11  E  L  I  A  . 

by  the  horrors  of  his  situation — horrors  vrhich  his  line  and  subtle 
intellect,  his  strong  imagination,  and  his  tendency  to  melancholy,  at 
once  exaggerate,  and  take  from  him  the  power  cither  to  endure,  or  "  l^y 
opposing,  end  them."  We  do  not  see  him  as  a  lover,  nor  as  Ophelia 
first  beheld  liim ;  for  the  days  when  he  importuned  her  with  love  were 
before  the  opening  of  the  drama — before  his  father's  spirit  revisited  the 
earth  ;  but  we  behold  him  at  once  in  a  sea  of  troubles,  of  perplexities, 
of  agonies,  of  terrors.  Without  remorse  he  endures  all  its  horrors; 
without  guilt,  he  endures  all  its  shame.  A  loathing  of  the  crime  he  is 
called  on  to  revenge,  which  revenge  is  again  abhorrent  to  his  nature, 
has  set  him  at  strife  with  himself;  the  supernatural  visitation  has 
perturbed  his  soul  to  its  inmost  depths  ;  all  things  else,  all  interests,  all 
hopes,  all  affections,  appear  as  futile,  when  the  majestic  shadow  comes 
lamenting  from  its  place  of  torment  "  to  shake  him  with  thoughts 
beyond  the  reaches  of  his  soul ! "  His  love  for  Ophelia  is  then 
ranked  by  himself  among  those  trivial,  fond  records  which  he  has  deeply 
sworn  to  erase  from  his  heart  and  brain.  He  has  no  thought  to  link 
his  terrible  destiny  with  hers :  he  cannot  marry  her  :  he  cannot  reveal 
to  her,  young,  gentle,  innocent  as  she  is,  the  terrific  influences  which 
have  changed  the  whole  cm-rent  of  his  life  and  purpose.  In  his 
distraction  he  overacts  the  painful  part  to  which  he  had  tasked  himself; 
he  is  like  that  judge  of  the  Areopagus,  who  being  occupied  with 
graver  matters,  flung  from  him  the  little  bird  which  had  sought  refuge 
in  his  bosom,  and  with  such  angry  violence,  that  unwittingly  he 
killed  it. 

In  the  scene  with  Hamlet,*  in  which  he  madly  outrages  her  and 
upbraids  himself,  Ophelia  says  very  little :  there  are  two  short  sentences 
ill  which  she  replies  to  his  wnld,  abrupt  discourse: — 

HAMLET. 

I  did  love  you  once. 

OrHELIA. 

Indeed,  my  lord,  you  made  me  believe  so. 
*  Act  iii.  8CCUV  1 


OPHELIA.  121 


You  should  not  have  believed  me :  for  virtue  cannot  so  inoculate  our  old  stock, 
but  we  shall  relish  of  it.    I  loved  you  not. 

OPHELIA. 

I  was  the  more  deceived. 

Those  who  ever  heard  Mrs.  Siddons  read  the  play  of  Hamlet,  cannot 
forget  the  world  of  meaning,  of  love,  of  sorrow,  of  despair,  conveyed 
in  these  two  simple  phrases.  Here,  and  in  the  soliloquy  afterwards, 
where  she  says, — 

And  I  of  ladies  most  deject  and  wretched, 
That  sucked  the  honey  of  his  music  vows, 

are  the  only  allusions  to  herself  and  her  own  feelin,gs   in  the  course 

of  the  play;    and  these,  uttered  almost  without  consciousness  on  her 

own  part,  contain  the  revelation  of   a  life  of  love,  and  disclose  the 

secret  burthen  of  a  heart  bursting  with  its  own  unuttered  grief.     She 

believes   Hamlet  crazed ;    she    is    repulsed,   she    is    forsaken,   she    is 

outraged,  where  she  had  bestowed  her  young  heart,  with  all  its  hopes 

and   wishes ;   her   father   is  slain  by  the   hand  of   her   lover,   as    it   is 

supposed,  in  a  paroxysm  of  insanity :  she  is  entangled  inextricably  in 

a    web    of   horrors    which  she    cannot    even    comprehend,    and    the 

result    seems    inevitable. 

Of  her  subsequent  madness,  what  can  be  said  ?     What  an  affecting 

— what  an  astonishing  picture  of  a  mind  utterly,  hopelessly  wrecked  ! 

— ^past  hope — past  cure  !     There   is   the  frenzy   of   excited  passion — 

there  is  the  madness  caused  by  intense  and  continued  thought — there 

is  the  delirium  of  fevered  nerves ;    but   Ophelia's  madness   is   distinct 

from  these :  it  is  not  the  suspension,  but  the  utter  destruction  of  the 

reasoning  powers;  it  is  the  total  imbecility  which,  as  medical  people 

well    know,   frequently    follows   some    terrible    shock    to   the    spirits. 

Constance   is   frantic ;    Lear   is  mad ;    Ophelia  is  insane.      Her  sweet 

mind  lies  in    fragments    before    us — a   pitiful    spectacle !      Her    wild, 

rambling  fancies ;    her  aimless,  broken  speeches ;  her  quick  transitions 

from  gaiety  to  sadness — each  equally  purposeless   and   causeless ;    her 

IG 


122  OPHELIA. 

snatches  of  old  ballads,  such  as  perhaps  her  nurse  sang  her  to  sleep 
with  in  her  infancy — are  all  so  true  to  the  life,  that  we  forget  to 
wonder,  and  can  only  weep.  It  belongs  to  Shakspeare  alone  so  to 
temper  such   a   picture  that  we  can  endure  to  dwell  upon   it : — 

Thought  and  afQiction,  passion,  hell  itself, 
She  turns  to  favor  and  to  prettiness. 

That  in  her  madness  she  should  exchange  her  bashful  silence  for 
empty  babbling,  her  sweet  maidenly  demeanor  for  the  impatient 
restlessness  that  spurns  at  straws,  and  say  and  sing  precisely  what 
she  never  would  or  could  have  uttered  had  she  been  in  possession 
of  her  reason,  is  so  far  from  being  an  impropriety,  that  it  is  an 
additional  stroke  of  nature.  It  is  one  of  the  symptoms  of  this  species 
of  insanity,  as  we  are  assured  by  physicians.  I  have  myself  kno\\Ti 
one  instance  in  the  case  of  a  young  Quaker  girl,  whose  character 
resembled  that  of  Ophelia,  and  whose  malady  arose  from  a  similar 
cause. 

The  whole  action  of  this  play  sweeps  past  us  like  a  torrent,  which 
hurries  along  in  its  dark  and  resistless  course  all  the  personages  of 
the  drama  towards  a  catastrophe  that  is  not  brought  about  by  human 
will,  but  seems  like  an  abyss  ready  dug  to  receive  them,  where  the 
good  and  the  wicked  are  whelmed  together.*  As  the  character  of 
Hamlet  has  been  compared,  or  rather  contrasted,  with  the  Greek 
Orestes,  being,  like  him,  called  on  to  avenge  a  crime  by  a  crime, 
tormented  by  remorseful  doubts,  and  pursued  by  distraction,  so,  to 
me,  the  character  of  Ophelia  bears  a  certain  relation  to  that  of  the 
Greek  Iphigenia,!  with  the  same  strong  distinction  between  the 
classical  and  the  romantic  conception  of  the  portrait.  Iphigenia  led 
forth  to  sacrifice,  with  her  unresisting  tenderness,  her  mournful 
sweetness,  her  virgin  innocence,  is  doomed  to  perish  by  that  relentless 
power,  which  has  linked  her  destiny  with  crimes  and  contests,  in 
which  she  has  no  part  but  as  a  sufferer;  and  even  so,  poor  Ophelia, 


•  Goethe.     See  the  analysis  of  Hamlet  in  Wilhelm  Meister. 
t  The  Iphigenia  in  Aulis  of  Euripides. 


O  P  II  K  L  I  A  .  123 

'■  ilivuled   from   nerselt"    and  her  fair    judgment,'     ap[)ears  here   like   a 
spotless  virfiiTi  offered  up  to  the  mysteriouj  and   inexorable    faies 

"  For  it  is  the  property  of  crime  to  extend  its  mischiefs  over 
innocence,  as  it  is  of  virtue  to  extend  its  blessings  over  many  that 
deserve  them  not,  while  frequently  the  author  of  one  or  the  other 
is  not,  as  far  as  we  can  see,  either  punished  or  rewarded."*  But  there's 
a  heaven  above  us ! 

•Goethe 


i^l  uovsrfci  r.- 


TEMPEST. 
Act  1 Sc.Z. 


MIRANDA 


We  might  have  deemed  it  impossible  to  go  beyond  Viola,  Perdila, 
and  Ophelia,  as  pictures  of  feminine  beauty ;  to  exceed  the  one  in 
tender  delicacy,  the  other  in  ideal  grace,  and  the  last  in  simplicity, — 
if  Shakspeare  had  not  done  this ;  and  he  alone  could  have  done  it. 
Had  he  never  created  a  Miranda,  we  should  never  have  been  made 
to  feel  how  completely  the  purely  natural  and  the  purely  ideal  can 
blend  into  each  other. 

The  character  of  Miranda  resolves  itself  into  the  very  elements  of 
womanhood.  She  is  beautiful,  modest,  and  tender,  and  she  is  these 
only ;  they  comprise  her  whole  being,  external  and  internal.  She 
is  so  perfectly  unsophisticated,  so  delicately  refined,  that  she  is  all 
but  ethereal.  Let  us  imagine  any  other  woman  placed  beside  Miranda 
— even  one  of  Shakspeare's  own  loveliest  and  sweetest  creations — 
there  is  not  one  of  them  that  could  sustain  the  comparison  for  a 
moment ;  not  one  that  would  not  appear  somewhat  coarse  or  artificial 
when  brought  into  immediate  contact  with  this  pure  child  of  nature, 
this  "  Eve  of  an  enchanted  Paradise." 

What,  then,  has  Shakspeare  done  1 — "  0  wondrous  skill  and  sweet 
wit  of  the  man ! " — he  has  removed  Miranda  far  from  all  comparison 
with  her  own  sex;  he  has  placed  her  between  the  demi-demon  of 
earth  and  the  delicate  spirit  of  air.  The  next  step  is  into  the  ideal 
and  supernatural  ;  and  the  only  being  who  approaches  Miranda,  with 
whom  she  can  be  contrasted,  is  Ariel.  Beside  the  subtle  essence  of 
this  ethereal  sprite,  this  creature  of  elemental  light  and  air,  that 
"  ran  upon  the  winds,  rode  the  curPd  clouds,  and  in  the  colors  of 
the  rainbow  lived,"  Miranda  herself  appears  a  palpable  reality,  a 
woman,   "  breathing  thoughtful  breath,"  a  woman,  walking  the  earth 


126  MIRANDA. 

in   her    mortal   loveliness,  with   a  heart   as   frail-strung,   as    passion- 
touched,  as  ever  fluttered  in  a  female  bosom, 

I  have  said  that  Miranda  possesses  merely  the  elementary  attributes 
of  womanhood,  but  each  of  these  stands  in  her  with  a  distinct  and 
peculiar  grace.  She  resembles  nothing  upon  earth  ;  but  do  we 
therefore  compare  her,  in  our  own  minds,  with  any  of  those  fabled 
beings  with  which  the  fancy  of  ancient  poets  peopled  the  forest 
depths,  the  fountain  or  the  ocean  ? — oread  or  dryad  fleet,  sea-maid, 
or  naiad  of  the  stream  1  We  cannot  Ihink  of  them  together.  Miranda 
is  a  consistent,  natural,  human  being.  Our  impression  of  her 
nymph-like  beauty,  her  peerless  grace  and  purity  of  soul,  has  a 
distinct  and  individual  character.  Not  only  is  she  exquisitely  lovely, 
being  what  she  is,  but  we  are  made  to  feel  that  she  could  not  possibly 
be  otherwise  than  as  she  is  portrayed.  She  has  never  beheld  one  of 
her  own  sex ;  she  has  never  caught  from  society  one  imitated  or 
artificial  grace.  The  impulses  which  have  come  to  her,  in  her 
enchanted  solitude,  are  of  heaven  and  nature,  not  of  the  world  and 
its  vanities.  She  has  sprung  up  into  beauty  beneath  the  eye  of  her 
father,  the  princely  magician ;  her  companions  have  been  the  rocks 
and  woods,  the  many-shaped,  many-tinted  clouds,  and  the  silent  stars ; 
her  playmates  the  ocean  billows,  that  stooped  their  foamy  crests,  and 
ran  rippling  to  kiss  her  feet.  Ariel  and  his  attendant  sprites  hovered 
over  her  head,  ministered  duteous  to  her  every  wish,  and  presented 
before  her  pageants  of  beauty  and  grandeur.  The  very  air,  made 
vocal  by  her  father's  art,  floated  in  music  around  her.  If  we  can 
pre-suppose  such  a  situation  with  all  its  circumstances,  do  we  not 
behold  in  the  character  of  Miranda  not  only  the  credible,  but  the 
natural,  the  necessary  results  of  such  a  situation  ?  She  retains  her 
woman's  heart,  for  that  is  unalterable  and  inalienable,  as  a  pai't  of 
her  being ;  but  her  deportment,  her  looks,  her  language,  her  thoughts 
— all  these,  from  the  supernatural  and  poetical  circumstances  around 
her,  assume  a  cast  of  the  pure  ideal ;  and  to  us  who  are  in  the 
secret  of  her  human  and  pitying  nature,  nothing  can  be  more  charming 
and  consistent  than  the  effect  which  she  produces  upon  others,  who 
never  having  beheld  anything  resembling  her,  approach  her  as  '^  a 
wonder,"  as  something  celestial  : — 


MIRANDA.  l~* 

Be  sure !  the  goddess  on  whom  these  airs  attend  I 

And  again : — 

"What  is  this  maid? 
Is  she  the  goddess  who  hath  severed  us, 
And  brought  us  thus  together  ? 

And  Ferdinand  exclaims,  while  gazing  on  her,— 

My  spirits  as  in  a  dream  are  all  bound  up  ! 
My  father's  loss,  the  weakness  that  I  feel, 
The  wreck  of  all  my  friends,  or  this  man's  threats, 
To  whom  I  am  subdued,  are  but  light  to  me 
Might  I  but  through  my  prison  once  a  day 
Behold  this  maid ;  all  corners  else  o'  the  earth 
Let  liberty  make  use  of,  space  enough 
Have  I  in  such  a  prison. 

Contrasted  with  the  impression  of  her  refined  and  dignified  beaut)-, 
and  its  effect  on  all  beholders,  is  Miranda's  own  soft  simplicity,  her 
virgin  innocence,  her  total  ignorance  of  the  conventional  forms  and 
language  of  society.  It  is  most  natural  that  in  a  being  thus 
constituted,  the  first  tears  should  spring  from  compassion,  "  suffermg 
with  those  that  she  saw  suffer  :" — 

O  the  cry  did  knock 
Against  my  very  heart.     Poor  souls  !  they  perished. 
Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  e'er 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallowed, 
And  the  freighting  souls  within  her  ; 

and  that  her  first  sigh  should  be  offered  to  a  love  at  once  fearless 
and  submissive,  delicate  and  fond.  She  has  no  taught  scruples  of 
honor  like  Juliet;  no  coy  concealments  like  Viola;  no  assumed 
di.mity  standing  in  its  own  defence.  Her  bashfulness  is  less  a  quality 
thL  an  instinct;  it  is  like  the  self-folding  of  a  flower,  spontaneous 
and  unconscious.      I  suppose  there  is  nothing   of  the  kind  in  poetry 


128  M  1  R  A  N  D  A  . 

equal  to  the  scene  between  Ferdinand  and  Miranda.  In  Ferdinand, 
who  is  a  noble  creature,  we  have  all  the  chivalrous  magnanimity 
with  which  man,  in  a  high  state  of  civilisation,  disguises  his  real 
superiority,  and  does  humble  homage  to  the  being  of  whose  destiny 
he  disposes ;  while  Miranda,  the  mere  child  of  nature,  is  struck  with 
wonder  at  her  own  new  emotions.  Only  conscious  of  her  own 
weakness  as  a  woman,  and  ignorant  of  those  usages  of  society  w'hich 
teach  us  to  dissemble  the  real  passion,  and  assume  (and  sometimes 
abuse)  an  unreal  and  transient  power,  she  is  equally  ready  to  place 
her  life,  her  love,  her  service  beneath  his  feet. 


Alas,  now  !  pray  you, 
Work  not  so  hard  :  I  would  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs,  that  you  are  enjoined  to  pile 
Pray  set  it  down  and  rest  you ;  when  this  burns, 
"Twill  weep  for  having  weary'd  you.     My  father 
Is  hard  at  study ;  pray  now,  rest  yourself ; 
He's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

FERDINAND. 

O  most  dear  mistress, 
The  sun  will  set  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  I  must  strive  to  do. 


If  you  '11  sit  down, 
I  '11  bear  your  logs  the  while.     Pray  give  me  thee, 
I  '11  carry  it  to  the  pile. 

FERDINAND. 


No,  precious  creature ; 
I  had  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 
Than  you  should  such  dishonor  undergo, 
While  I  sit  lazy  by. 


MIRANDA. 


It  would  become  mo 
Ae  well  as  it  does  you ;  and  I  should  do  it 


MIRANDA.  ^-^ 

With  much  more  ease  ;  for  my  good  will  is  lo  it. 
And  yours  against. 

MIRANDA. 

You  look  wearily. 

FERDINAN3. 

No,  noble  mistress ;  'tis  fresh  morning  with  me 
When  you  are  by  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you 
(Chiefly  that  I  miglit  set  it  in  my  prayers), 
VVliiil  is  your  name  ? 


Miranda.     O  my  father, 
I  liave  broke  your  best  to   say  so  ! 

FERDINAND. 

Admir'd  Miranda  I 
Indeed  the  top  of  admiration ;  worth 
What's  dearest  in  the  world  !     Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  eyed  with  best  regard  :  and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear  :  for  several  virtues 
Have  I  liked  several  women ;  never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  ([uarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owed 
And  put  it  to  the  foil.     But  you,  O  you, 
So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best  I 


]  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex  :  no  woman's  face  remember, 

Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own  !  nor  have  I  seen 

More  that  I  may  call  man,  than  you,  good  friend, 

And  my  dear  father.     How  features  are  abroad 

I  am  skill-less  of:  but,  by  my  modesty 

(The  jewel  in  my  dower),  I  would  not  wish 

Any  companion  in  tho  world  but  you  ; 

Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape, 
17 


130  MIRANDA. 

Besides  yourself,  to  like  of.    But  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  precepts 
Therein  forget. 

FERDINAND. 

I  am,  in  my  condition 
A  prince,  Miranda — I  do  think  a  king — 
I  would  not  so  !  and  would  no  more  endure 
This  wooden  slavery,  tlian  I  would  suffer 
The  flesh-fly  blow  my  mouth.     Hear  my  soul  speak ; 
The  very  instant  that  I  saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service,  there  resides 
To  make  me  slave  to  it ;  and,  for  your  sake, 
Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 

MIRANDA. 

Do  you  love  me  ? 

FERDINAND. 

O  heavens  !  O  earth  !  bear  witness  to  this  sound, 
And  crown  what  I  -  profess  with  kind  event. 
If  I  speak  true  :  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me  to  mischief !     I, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  in  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honor  you. 


I  am  a  fool. 
To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 

FERDINAND. 

Wherefore  weep  you  ? 


At  mine  unworthiness,  that  dare  not  offer 

What  I  desire  to  give  ;  and  much  less  take, 

What  I  shall  die  to  want.     But  this  is  trifling : 

And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself. 

The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.    Hence,  bashful  cunning : 


MIRANDA.  J;J1 


And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence  ! 
I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me  ; 
if  not  I  '11  die  your  maid :  to  be  your  fellow 
You  may  deny  me  ;  but  I  '11  be  your  servant 
Whether  you  will  or  no ! 

FERDINAND. 

My  mistress,  dearest ! 
And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

MIRANDA. 

My  husband,  then  ? 

FERDINAND. 

Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing, 

As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom.    Here's  my  hand. 


And  mine  with  my  heart  in  it.     And  now  farewell 
Till  half  an  hour  hence. 

As  Miranda,  being  what  she  is,  could  only  have  had  a  Ferdinand  for 
her  lover,  and  an  Ariel  for  her  attendant,  so  she  could  have  had  with 
propriety  no  other  father  than  the  majestic  and  gifted  being,  who 
fondly  claims  her  as  "  a  thread  of  his  o\vn  life — nay,  that  for  which 
he  lives."  Prospero,  with  his  magical  powers,  his  superhuman  wisdom, 
his  moral  worth  and  grandeur,  and  his  kingly  dignity,  is  one  of  the 
most  sublime  visions  that  ever  swept  with  ample  robes,  pale  brow,  and 
sceptred  hand,  before  the  eye  of  fancy.  He  controls  the  invisible  world, 
and  works  through  the  agency  of  spirits  !  not  by  any  evil  and  forbidden 
compact,  but  solely  by  superior  might  of  intellect — ^by  potent  spells 
gathered  from  the  lore  of  ages,  and  abjured  when  he  mingles  again 
as  a  man  with  his  fellow  men.  He  is  as  distinct  a  being  from  the 
necromancers  and  astrologers  celebrated  in  Shakspeare's  age,  as  can 
well  be  imagined :  *  and  all  the  wizards  of  poetry   and  fiction,  even 

•  Such  as  Cornelius  Agrippa,  Michael  Scott,  Dr  Dee.  The  last  was  the  contemporary 
Y  Shakspeare. 


132  MIRANDA. 

Faust  and  St.  Leon,  sink  into  commonplaces  before  the  princely,  the 
philosophic,  the  benevolent  Prospero. 

The  Bermuda  Isles,  in  which  Shakspeare  has  placed  the  scene  of 
the  Tempest,  were  discovered  in  his  time  :  Sir  George  Somers  and 
his  companions  having  been  wrecked  there  in  a  terrible  storm,*  brought 
back  a  most  fearful  account  of  those  unknown  islands,  which  they 
described  as  "  a  land  of  devils — a  most  prodigious  and  enchanted  place, 
subject  to  continual  tempests  and  supernatural  visitings."  Such  was 
the  idea  entertained  of  the  "  still-vext  Bermoothes "  in  Shakspeare's 
age ;  but  later  travellers  describe  them  as  perfect  regions  of  enchantment 
in  a  far  different  sense  ;  as  so  many  fairy  Edens,  clustered  like  a  knot 
of  gems  upon  the  bosom  of  the  Atlantic,  decked  out  in  all  the  lavish 
luxuriance  of  nature,  with  shades  of  myrtle  and  cedar,  fringed  round 
with  groves  of  coral ;  in  short,  each  island  a  tiny  paradise,  rich 
with  perpetual  blossoms,  in  which  Ariel  might  have  slumbered,  and 
ever-verdant  bowers,  in  which  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  might  have 
strayed :  so  that  Shakspeare,  in  blending  the  wild  relations  of  the 
shipwrecked  mariners  with  his  own  inspired  fancies,  has  produced 
nothing,  however  lovely  in  nature  and  sublime  in  magical  power, 
w\:i:h  does  not  harmonize  with  the  beautiful  and  wondrous  reality. 

There  is  another  circmnstance  connected  with  the  Tempest,  which 
is  rather  interesting.  It  was  produced  and  acted  for  the  first  time 
upon  the  occasion  of  the  nuptials  of  the  Princess  Elizabeth,  the 
eldest  daughter  of  James  L,  with  Frederic,  the  elector  palatine.  It 
is  hardly  necessary  to  remind  the  reader  of  the  fate  of  this  amiable 
but  most  unhappy  woman,  whose  life,  almost  from  the  period  of  her 
mjwriage,  was   one  long  tempestuous    scene  of  trouble   and  adversity. 

The  characters  which  I  have  here  classed  together,  as  principally 
distinguished  by  the  predominance  of  passion  and  fancy,  appear  to  me 
to  rise,  in  the  scale  of  ideality  and  simplicity,  from  Juliet  to  Miranda; 
the  last  being  in  comparison  so  refined,  so  elevated  above  all  stain  of 
earth,  that  w^e  can  only  acknowledge  her  in  connection  with  it  through 
the  emotions  of  sympathy  she  feels  and  inspires. 

*  In  1609,  about  three  years  before  Shakspeare  produced  the  Tempest,  which,  though 
placed  first  in  all  the  editions  of  his  works,  was  one  of  the  last  of  his  dramas. 


MIRANDA.  133 

I  remember,  when  I  was  in  Italy,  standing  "  at  evening  on  the  top 
of  Fesole,"  and  at  my  feet  I  beheld  the  city  of  Florence  and  the  Val 
d'Arno,  with  its  villas,  its  luxuriant  gardens,  groves,  and  olive  grounds, 
all  bathed  in  crimson  light.  A  transparent  vapor  or  exhalation,  which 
in  its  tint  was  almost  as  rich  as  the  pomegranate  flower,  moving  with 
soft  undulation,  rolled  through  the  valley,  and  the  very  earth  seemed  to 
pant  with  warm  life  beneath  its  rosy  veil.  A  dark  purple  shade,  the 
forerunner  of  night,  was  already  stealing  over  the  east ;  in  the  western 
sky  still  lingered  the  blaze  of  the  sunset,  while  the  faint  perfume  of 
trees,  and  flowers,  and  now  and  then  a  strain  of  music  wafted  upwards, 
completed  the  intoxication  of  the  senses.  But  I  looked  from  the  earth 
to  the  sky,  and  immediately  above  this  scene  hung  the  soft  crescent 
moon — alone,  with  all  the  bright  heaven  to  herself;  and  as  that  sweet 
moon  to  the  glowing  landscape  beneath  it,  such  is  the  character  of 
Miranda  compared  to  that  of  Juliet 


CHARACTEES 


OP 


THE  AFFECTIONS. 


H  E  R  M  I  0  N  E  . 


Characters  in  which  the  affections  and  the  moral  qualities 
predominate  over  fancy  and  all  that  bears  the  name  of  passion,  are 
not,  when  Ave  meet  with  them  in  real  life,  the  most  striking  and 
interesting,  nor  the  easiest  to  be  understood  and  appreciated ;  but 
they  are  those  on  which,  in  the  long  run,  we  repose  wuth  increasing 
confidence  and  ever-new  delight.  Such  characters  are  not  easily 
exhibited  in  the  colors  of  poetry,  and  when  we  meet  with  them 
there,  we  are  reminded  of  the  effect  of  Raffaelle's  pictures  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  assures  us  that  it  took  him  three  weeks  to  discover 
the  beauty  of  the  frescoes  in  the  Vatican ;  and  many,  if  they  spoke 
truth,  would  prefer  one  of  Titian's  or  Murillo's  Virgins  to  one 
of  Raffaelle's  heavenly  Madonnas.  The  less  there  is  of  marked 
expression  or  vivid  color  in  a  countenance  or  character,  the  more 
difficult  to  delineate  it  in  such  a  manner  as  to  captivate  and  interest 
us:  but  when  this  is  done,  and  done  to  perfection,  it  is  the  miracle 
of  poetry  in  painting,  and  of  painting  in  poetry.  Only  Raffaelle 
and  Correggio  have  achieved  it  in  one  case,  and  only  Shakspeare  in 
the  other. 

When,  by  the  presence  or  the  agency  of  some  predominant  and 
exciting  pow'er,  the  feelings  and  affections  are  upturned  from  the 
depths  of  the  heart,  and  flung  to  the  surface,  the  painter  or  the  poet 
has  but  to  watch  the  workings  of  the  passions,  thus  in  a  mann(;r 
made  visible,  and  transfer  them  to  his  page  or  his  canvas,  in  colors 
more  or  less  vigorous  :  but  where  all  is  calm  without  and  around,  to 
dive  into  the  profoundest  abysses  of  character,  trace  the  affections 
where  they  lie  hidden  like  the  ocean  springs,  wind  into  the  most 
intricate  involutions  of  the  heart,  patiently  unravel    its    most    delicate 

18 


138  H  E  R  M  I  O  N  E  . 

fibres,  and  in  a  few  graceful  touches  place  before  us  the  distinct  and 
visible  result, — to  do  this  demanded  power  of  another  and  a  rarer 
kind. 

There  are  several  of  Shakspeare's  characters  which  are  especially 
distinguished  by  this  profound  feeling  in  the  conception,  and  subdued 
harmony  of  tone  in  the  delineation.  To  them  may  be  particularly 
applied  the  ingenious  simile  which  Goethe  has  used  to  illustrate 
generally  all  Shakspeare's  characters,  when  he  compares  them  to  the 
old-fashioned  watches  in  glaSs  cases,  which  not  only  showed  the  index 
pointing  to  the  hour,  but  the  wheels  and  springs  within,  which  set 
that  index  in  motion. 

Imogen,  Desdemona,  and  Hermione,  are  three  women  placed  in 
situations  nearly  similar,  and  equally  endowed  with  all  the  qualities 
which  can  render  that  situation  striking  and  interesting.  They  are 
all  gentle,  beautiful,  and  innocent ',  all  are  models  of  conjugal 
submission,  truth,  and  tenderness ;  and  all  are  victims  of  the 
unfounded  jealousy  of  their  husbands.  So  far  the  parallel  is  close, 
but  here  the  resemblance  ceases  ;  the  circumstances  of  each  situation 
are  varied  with  wonderful  skill,  and  the  characters,  which  are  as 
different  as  it  is  possible  .to  imagine,  conceived  and  discriminated 
with  a  power  of  truth  and  a  delicacy  of  feeling  yet  more 
astonishing. 

Critically  speaking,  the  character  of  Hermione  is  the  most  simple 
in  point  of  dramatic  effect,  that  of  Imogen  is  the  most  varied  and 
complex.  Hermione  is  most  distinguished  by  her  magnanimity  and 
her  fortitude,  Desdemona  by  her  gentleness  and  refined  grace,  whih; 
Imogen  combines  all  the  best  qualities  of  both,  with  others  which 
they  do  not  possess ;  consequently  she  is,  as  a  character,  superior  to 
either:  but  considered  as  women,  I  suppose  the  preference  would 
depend  on  individual  taste. 

Hermione  is  the  heroine  of  the  three  first  acts  of  the  Winter's 
Tale.  She  is  the  wife  of  Leontes,  king  of  Sicilia,  and  though  in 
the  prime  of  beauty  and  womanhood,  is  not  represented  in  the  first 
bloom  of  youth.  Her  husband  on  slight  grounds  suspects  her  of 
infidelity  with  his  friend  Polixenes,  king  of  Bohemia;  the  suspicion 
once  admitted,  and  working  on  a  jealous,  passionate,  and  vindictive 
mind,  becomes  a  settled  and  confirmed  opinion.     Hermione  is  thrown 


H  E  R  M  I  O  N  E  .  139 

into  a  dungeon;  her  new-born  infant  is  taken  from  her,  and  by  the 
order  of  her  husband,  frantic  with  jealousy,  exposed  to  death  on  a 
desert  shore ;  she  is  herself  brought  to  a  public  trial  for  treason  and 
incontinency,  defends  herself  nobly,  and  is  pronounced  innocent  by 
the  oracle.  But  at  the  very  moment  that  she  is  acquitted,  she  learns 
the  death  of  the  prince  her  son,  who 

Conceiving  the  dishonor  of  his  mother, 
Had  straight  declined,  drooped,  took  it  deeply, 
Fastened  and  fixed  the  shame  on 't  in  himself, 
Threw  off"  his  spirit,  appetite,  and  sleep. 
And  downright   languished. 

She  swoons  away  with  grief,  and  her  supposed  death  concludes  the 
third  act.  The  two  last  acts  are  occupied  with  the  adventures  of 
her  daughter  Perdita ;  and  with  the  restoration  of  Perdita  to  the 
arms  of  her  mother,  and  the  reconciliation  of  Hermione  and  Leontes, 
the  piece  concludes. 

Such,  in  few  words,  is  the  dramatic  situation.  The  character  ol' 
Hermione  exhibits  what  is  never  found  in  the  other  sex,  but  rarely 
in  our  own — yet  sometimes;  dignity  without  pride,  love  without 
passion,  and  tenderness  without  weakness.  To  conceive  a  character 
in  which  there  enters  so  much  of  the  negative,  required  perhaps  no 
rare  and  astonishing  effort  of  genius,  such  as  created  a  Juliet,  a 
Miranda,  or  a  Lady  Macbeth ;  but  to  delineate  such  a  character  in  the 
poetical  form,  to  develope  it  through  the  medium  of  action  and 
dialogue,  without  the  aid  of  description :  to  preserve  its  tranquil, 
mild,  and  serious  beauty,  its  unimpassioned  dignity,  and  at  the  same 
time  keep  the  strongest  hold  upon  our  sympathy  and  our  imagination ; 
and  out  of  this  exterior  calm,  produce  the  most  profound  pathos,  the 
most  vivid  impression  of  life  and  internal  power  : — it  is  this  which 
renders  the  character  of  Hermione  one  of  Shakspe are's   masterpieces. 

Hermione  is  a  queen,  a  matron,  and  a  mother  ;  she  is  good  and 
beautiful,  and  royally  descended.  A  majestic  sweetness,  a  grand  and 
gracious  simplicity,  an  easy,  unforced,  yet  dignified  self-possession, 
are  in  all  her  deportment,  and  in  every  word  she  utters.  She  is  one 
of   those   characters   of   whom    it    has  been    said    proverbially,  that 


140  li  E  R  M  1  O  N  E  . 

"  still  waters  run  deep."  Her  passions  are  not  vehement,  but  in  her 
settled  mind  the  sources  of  pain  or  pleasure,  love  or  resentment, 
are  like  the  springs  that  feed  the  mountain  lakes,  impenetrable, 
unfathomable,  and  inexhaustible. 

Shakspeare  has  conveyed  (as  is  his  custom)  a  part  of  the  character 
of  Hermione  in  scattered  touches,  and  through  the  impressions  which 
she  produces  on  all  around  her.  Her  surpassing  beauty  is  alluded 
to  in  few  but  strong  terms  : — 


Tliis  jealousy 
Is  for  a  precious  creature  ;   as  she  is  rare 
Must  it  be  great. 

Praise  her  but  for  this  her  out-door  form 
(Which,  on  my  faith,  deserves  high  speech — ). 

If  one  by  one  you  wedded  all  the  world, 
Or  from  the  all  that  are,  took  something  good 
To  make  a  perfect  woman  ;  she  you  killed 
Would  be  unparalleled. 

I  might  have  looked  upon  my  queen's  full  eyes, 
Have  taken  treasure  from  her  lips — 

and  left  them 

More  rich  for  what  they  yielded. 

The  expressions  "  most  sacred  lady,"  "  dread  mistress,"  "sovereign," 
with  which  she  is  addressed  or  alluded  to,  the  boundless  devotion  and 
respect  of  those  around  her,  and  their  confidence  in  her  goodness  and 
innocence,  are  so  many  additional  strokes  in  the  portrait. 

For  her,  my  lord, 
I  dare  my  life  lay  down,  and  will  do  't,  sir. 
Please  you  t'  accept  it,  that  the  queen  is  spotless 
r  the  eyes  of  heaven,  and  to  you. 

Every  inch  of  woman   in  the  world, 
Ay,  every  dram  of  woman's  flesh  is  false, 
If  she  be  so. 


fl  E  R  M  I  O  N  E  .  141 

I  would  not  be  a  stander-by  to  hear 

My  sovereign  mistress  clouded  so,  without 

My  present  vengeance  taken  ! 

The  mixture  of  playful  courtesy,  queenly  dignity,  and  lady-like 
sweetness,  with  which  she  prevails  on  Polixenes  to  prolong  his  visit, 
is  charming. 

HERMIONE. 

You'll  stay  ! 


No,  madam. 


I  may  not,  verily. 


rOLIXENES. 
HERMIONE. 

Nay.  but  you  will. 

rOLIXENES. 
HERIMIOXE. 


Verily  ! 
You  put  me  off  with  limber  vows  ;    but  I, 
Tho'  you  would  seek  t'  unsphere  the  stars  with  oaths, 
Should  still  say,  "  Sir,  no  going !  "     Verily, 
You  shall  not  go  !     A  lady's  verily  is 
As  potent  as  a  lord's.     Will  you  go  yet  ? 
Force  me  to  keep  you  as  a  prisoner, 
Not  like  a  guest  ? 

And  though  the  situation  of  Hermione  admits  hut  of  few  general 
reflections,  one  little  speech,  inimitably  beautiful  and  characteristic, 
has  become  almost  proverbial  from  its  truth.     She  says  :— 

One  good  deed,  dying  tongueless, 
Slaughters  a  thousand,  waiting  upon  that. 
Our  praises  are  our  wages  ;  you  may  ride  us 
With  one  soft  kiss  a  thousand  furlongs,  ere 
With  spur  we  heat  an  acre. 


142  HER  -M  I  O  X  E  . 

She  receives  the  first  intimation  of  her  huiiband's  jealous  suspicions 
with  incredulous  astonishment.  It  is  not  that,  like  Desdemona,  she 
does  not,  or  cannot  understand ;  but  she  will  not.  When  he  accuses 
her  more  plainly,  she  replies  with  a  calm  dignity  : — 

Should  a  villain  say  so — 
The  most  replenished  villain  in  the  world — 
He  were  as  much  more  villain  :  you,  my  lord, 
Do  but  mistake. 

This  characteristic  composure  of  temper  never  forsakes  her  ;  and 
yet  it  is  so  delineated  that  the  impression  is  that  of  grandeur,  and 
never  borders  upon  pride  or  coldness  :  it  is  the  fortitude  of  a  gentle 
but  a  strong  mind,  conscious  of  its  own  innocence.  Nothing  can  be 
more  affecting  than  her  calm  reply  to  Leontes,  who,  in  his  jealous 
rage,  heaps  insult  upon  insult,  and  accuses  her  before  her  own 
attendants,  as  no  better  "  than  one  of  those  to  whom  the  vulgar  give 
bold  titles." 

How  will  this  grieve  you, 
When  you  shall  come  to  clearer  knowledge,  that 
You  have  thus  published  me  !     Gentle  my  lord, 
You  scarce  can  right  me  thoroughly  then,  to  say 
You  did  mistake. 

Her  mild  dignity  and  saint-like  patience,  combined  as  they  are 
with  the  strongest  sense  of  the  cruel  injustice  of  her  husband,  thrill 
us  with  admiration  as  well  as  pity ;  and  we  cannot  but  see  and  feel, 
that  for  Herraione  to  give  way  to  tears  and  feminine  complaints 
under  such  a  blow,  would  be  quite  incompatible  with  the  character. 
Thus  she  says  of  herself,  as  she  is  led  to  prison  : — . 

There's  some  ill  planet  reigns  : 
1  must  be  patient  till  the  heavens  look 
With  an  aspect  more  favorable.     Good  my  lords, 
I  am  not  prone  to  weeping,  as  our  sex 
Commonly  are ;  the  want  of  which  vain  dew 
Perchance  shall  dry  your  pities  ;  but  I  have 
That  honorable  grief  lodged   here,  that  burns 


H  E  R  M  I  O  N  E  .  143 

Worse  than  tears  drown.     Beseech  you  all,  my  lords, 
Willi  thoughts  so  qualified  as  your  charities 
Hhall  best  instruct  you,  measure  me  ;  and  so 
Tlie  king's  will  be  performed. 

When  she  is  brought  to  trial  for  supposed  crimes,  called  on  to 
defend  herself,  "  standing  to  prate  and  talk  for  life  and  honor,  before 
who  please  to  come  and  hear  her,"  the  sense  of  her  ignominious 
situation — all  its  shame  and  all  its  horror  press  upon  her,  and 
would  apparently  crush  even  her  magnanimous  spirit,  but  for  the 
consciousness  of  her  own  worth  and  innocence,  and  the  necessity  that 
exists  for  asserting  and  defending  both. 

If  powers  divine 
Behold  our  human  actions  (as  they  do), 
I  doubt  not,  then,  but  innocence  shall  make 
False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny 
Tremble  at  patience. 

■*  *  *  :j:  .f:  * 

For  life,  I  prize  it 
As  I  weigh  grief,  which  I  would  spare.     For  honor — 
'Tis  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine, 
And  only  that  I  stand  for. 

Her  earnest,  eloquent  justification  of  herself,  and  her  lofty  sense  of 
female  honor,  are  rendered  more  affecting  and  impressive  by  that 
chilling  despair,  that  contempt  for  a  life  which  has  been  made 
bitter  to  her  through  unkindness,  which  is  betrayed  in  every  word 
of  her  speech,  though  so  calmly  characteristic.  When  she  enumerates 
the  unmerited  insults  which  have  been  heaped  upon  her,  it  is  without 
asperity  or  reproach,  yet  in  a  tone  which  shows  how  completely  the 
iron  has  entered  her  soul.  Thus  when  Leontes  threatens  her  with 
death : — 

Sir,  spare  your  tlircats  ; 
The  bug  which  you  would  fright  me  with  I  seek. 
To  me  can  life  be  no  commodity  ; 
The  crown  and  comfort  of  my  life,  your  favor 
I  do  give  lost  ;  for  I  do  feel  it  gone, 


J 44  t\  iL  K  .M  I  O  N  E  . 

But  know  not  liow  it  went.     My  second  joy, 
The  first-fruits  of  my  body,  from  liis  presence 
I  am  barr'd,  like  one  infectious.     My  third  coinfort- 
Starr'd  most  unluckily ! — is  from  my  breast, 
The  innocent  milk  in  its  most  innocent  mouth. 
Haled  out  to  murder.     Myself  on  every  post 
Proclaimed  a  strumpet ;  with  immodest  hatred, 
The  child-bed  privilege  denied,  which  'longs 
To  women  of  all  fashion.     Lastly,  hurried 
Here  to  this  place,  i'  the  open  air,  before 
I  have  got  strength  of  limit.     Now,  my  liege, 
Tell  me  what  blessings  I  have  here  alive. 
That  I  should  fear  to  die.     Therefore,  proceed, 
But  yet  hear  this  ;  mistake  me  not.     No  !  hfe 
I  prize  it  not  a  straw  : — but  for  mine  honor 
(Which  I  would  free),  if  I  shall  be  condemned 
Upon  surmises  ;  all  proof  'sleeping  else, 
But  what  your  jealousies  awake  ;  I  tell  you, 
'Tis  rigor  and  not  law. 


The  character  of  Henuione  is  considered  open  to  criticism  on  one 
point.  I  have  heard  it  remarked  that  when  she  secludes  herself 
from  the  world  for  sixteen  years,  during  which  time  she  is  mourned 
as  dead  by  her  repentant  husband,  and  is  not  w^on  to  relent  from  hei' 
resolve  by  his  sorrow,  his  remorse,  his  constancy  to  her  memory  ;  such 
conduct,  argues  the  critic,  is  unfeeling  as  it  is  inconceivable  in  a  tender 
and  virtuous  woman.  Would  Imogen  have  done  so,  who  is  so 
generously  ready  to  grant  a  pardon  before  it  be  asked  ?  or 
Desdemona,  who  docs  not  forgive  because  she  cannot  even  resent  ? 
No,  assuredly  ;  but  this  is  only  another  proof  of  the  wonderful 
delicacy  and  consistency  with  which  Shakspeare  has  discriminated  the 
characters  of  all  three.  The  incident  of  Hermione's  supposed  death 
and  concealment  for  sixteen  years,  is  not  indeed  very  probable  in 
itself,  nor  very  likely  to  occur  in  every-day  life.  But  besides  all 
the  probability  necessary  for  the  purpose  of  poetry,  it  has  all  the 
likelihood  it  can  derive  from  the  peculiar  character  of  Hermione, 
who  is  precisely  the  woman  who  could  and  would  have  acted  in 
this  manner.  In  such  a  mind  as  hers,  the  sense  of  a  cruel  injury, 
inflicted   by  one  she  had    loved  and   trusted,  without    awakening    any 


H  E  R  M  I  0  N  E  .  14n 

violent   anger   or    any  desire  of  vengeance,  would   sink   deep — almost 
incurably    and    lastingly    deep.     So    far    she   is   most    unlike     either 
Imogen   or   Desdemona,    who     are   portrayed    as    much   more    flexible 
in   temper  ;   but  then  the  circumstances   under  which   she   is  wronged 
are    very    different    and     far    more   unpardonable.     The    self-created, 
frantic   jealousy    of    Leontes    is   very    distinct   from   that   of    Othello, 
writhing   under   the    arts    of    lago :    or    that    of    Posthumus,   whose 
understanding   has   been   cheated   by  the   most    damning   evidence   of 
his   wife's  infidelity.     The  jealousy  which    in   Othello  and   Posthumus 
is  an   error    of  judgment,    in   Leontes    is    a   vice    of  the   blood  ;     he 
suspects  without  cause,  condemns  without  proof;  he  is  without  excuse 
— unless   the   mixture    of    pride,    passion,    and    imagination,    and   the 
predisposition   to   jealousy  with  which  Shakspeare  has  portrayed  him, 
be  considered  as  an  excuse.     Hermione  has  been  openly  insulted :  he 
to  whom   she    gave   herself,  her  heart,  her   soul,  has   stooped   to    the 
weakness    and    baseness    of   suspicion  ;    has    doubted    her    truth,   has 
wronged  her  love,  has  sunk  in  her  esteem,  and  forfeited  her  confidence. 
She  has  been  branded  with  vile   names  ;   her  son,  her  eldest  hope,  is 
dead — dead  through  the   false    accusation  which    has    stuck  infamy  on 
his  mother's  name  ;  and  her  innocent  babe,  stained  with   illegitimacy, 
disowned  and  rejected,  has  been   exposed   to   a  cruel  death.     Can  we 
believe  that  the  mere  tardy  acknowledgment    of  her  innocence  could 
make    amends    for    wrongs    and    agonies   such    as   these  ?     or   heal    a 
heart   which    must    have    bled    inwardly,    consumed    by    that   untold 
grief,    "  ^\hich    burns  worse    than    tears    drown?"     Keeping    in  view 
the    peculiar   character   of   Hermione,    such   as    she    is   delineated,    is 
she  one   either  to   forgive  hastily  or  forget  quickly  ?   and  though  she 
might,  in   her  solitude,  mourn  over  her  repentant  husband,  would   his 
repentance  suffice   to   restore   him  at  once  to  his  place  in  her  heart  : 
to  efface  from  her  strong  and   reflecting  mind   the  recollection  of  his 
miserable    weakness  ?    or  can  we    fancy  this    high-souled  woman — left 
childless  through  the  injury  which  has  been  inflicted  on  her,  widowed 
in    heart   by   the    unworthiness    of  him    she    loved,    a    spectacle    of 
grief  to    all — to   her  husband  a  continual   reproach  and  humiliation — 
walking    tkrough    the    parade    of    royalty   in   the    court    which    had 
witnessed  her   anguish,  her  shame,  her   degradation,  and  her  despair  ? 
Methinks,  that  the  want  of  feeling,  nature,  delicacy,  and  consistency, 

19 


146  a  E  R  M  I  o  :\  E  . 

would  lie  in  such  an  exhibition  as  this.  In  a  mind  like  Hermione's, 
where  the  strength  of  feeling  is  founded  in  the  power  of  thought, 
and  where  there  is  little  of  impulse  or  imagination, — "  the  depth 
but  not  the  tumult  of  the  soul,"  * — there  are  but  two  influences 
which  predominate  over  the  will — time  and  religion.  And  what 
then  remained,  but  that,  wounded  in  heart  and  spirit,  she  should 
retire  from  the  world  ? — not  to  brood  over  her  wrongs,  but  to 
study  forgiveness,  and  wait  the  fulfdment  of  the  oracle  which  had 
promised  the  termination  of  her  sorrows.  Thus  a  premature 
reconciliation  would  not  only  have  been  painfully  inconsistent  with 
the  character ;  it  would  also  have  deprived  us  of  that  most 
beautiful  scene,  in  which  Hermione  is  discovered  to  her  husband 
as  the  statue  or  image  of  herself.  And  here  we  have  another 
instance  of  that  admirable  art,  with  which  the  dramatic  character 
is  fitted  to  the  circumstances  in  which  it  is  placed ;  that  perfect 
command  over  her  own  feelings,  that  complete  self-possession 
necessary  to  this  extraordinary  situation,  is  consistent  with  all  that 
we  imagine  of  Hermione :  in  any  other  woman  it  would  be  so 
incredible   as   to   shock   all  our   ideas   of  probability. 

This  scene,  then,  is  not  -only  one  of  the  most  picturesque  and 
striking  instances  of  stage  effect  to  be  found  in  the  ancient  or 
modern  drama,  but  by  the  skilful  manner  in  which  it  is  prepared, 
it  has,  wonderful  as  it  appears,  all  the  merit  of  consistency  and 
truth.  The  grief,  the  love,  the  remorse  and  impatience  of  Leontes, 
are  finely  contrasted  with  the  astonishment  and  admiration  of 
Perdita,  who,  gazing  on  the  figure  of  her  mother  like  one 
entranced,  looks  as  if  she  were  also  turned  to  marble.  There  is 
here  one  little  instance  of  tender  remembrance  in  Leontes,  which 
adds   to    the   charming   impression   of  Hermione's   character. 

* The  gods  approve 

The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult  of  the  soul. 

WoKDSWORTir. 

*•  II  pouvait  y  avoir  des  vagues  majcstueuses  et  non  de  I'orage  dans  son  coeur," 
was  finely  observed  of  Madame  de  Stael  in  her  maturer  years ;  it  would  have 
been  true  of  Hermione  at  any  period  of  her  life. 


HERMIONE.  117 

Cliide  me,  dear  stone  !  that  I  may  say  indeed 
Thou  art  Hermione ;  or  rather  thou  art  she 
In  thy  not  chiding,  for  she  was  as  tender 
As  infancy  and   grace. 

Thus  she  stood, 
Even  with  such  life  of  majesty — warm  life — 
As  now  it  coldly  stands — when  first  I  woo'd  her ! 

The  effect  produced  on  the  different  persons  of  the  drama  by 
this  living  statue — an  effect  which  at  the  same  moment  is  and  is 
720^  illusion — the  manner  in  which  the  feelings  of  the  spectators 
become  entangled  between  the  conviction  of  death  and  the  impression 
of  life,  the  idea  of  a  deception  and  the  feeling  of  a  reality ;  and 
the  exquisite  coloring  of  poetry  and  touches  of  natural  feeling 
with  which  the  whole  is  wrought  up,  till  wonder,  expectation, 
and  intense  pleasure,  hold  our  pidse  and  breath  suspended  on  the 
event — are   quite   inimitable. 

The   expressions   used   here   by  Leontes, — 

Thus  she  stood. 
Even  with  such  life  of  majesty — warm  life. 

The  fixture  of  her  eye  has  motion  in  't. 
And  we  are  mock'd  by  art ! 

And   by  Polixenes, — 

The  very  life  seems  warm  upon  her  lip, 

appear  strangely  applied  to  a  statue,  such  as  we  usually  imagine 
it — of  the  cold  colorless  marble;  but  it  is  evident  that  in  this 
scene  Hermione  personates  one  of  those  images  or  effigies,  such  as 
we  may  see  in  the  old  gothic  cathedrals,  in  which  the  stone  or 
marble  was  colored  after  nature-  I  remember  coming  suddenly 
upon  one  of  these  effigies,  either  at  Basle  or  Fribourg,  which 
made  me  start ;  the  figure  was  large  as  life ;  the  drapery  of 
crimson,  powdered  with  stars  of  gold ;  the  face,  and  eyes,  and 
hair    tinted    after    nature,    though    faded    by  time :     it    stood    in   a 


113  H  E  R  M  1  O  N  E  . 

gothic  niche,  over  a  tomb,  as  I  think,  and  in  a  kind  of  dim 
uncertain  light.  It  would  have  been  very  easy  for  a  living 
person  to  represent  such  an  effigy,  particularly  if  it  had  been 
painted  by  that  "  rare  Italian  master,  Julio  Romano, "  *  who,  as 
we  are  informed,  was  the  reputed  author  of  this  wonderful 
statue. 

The  moment  when  Hermione  descends  from  her  pedestal  to  the 
sound  of  soft  music,  and  throws  herself  without  speaking  into  her 
husband's  arms,  is  one  of  inexpressible  interest.  It  appears  to 
me  that  her  silence  during  the  whole  of  this  scene  (except  where 
she  invokes  a  blessing  on  her  daughter's  head)  is  in  the  finest 
taste  as  a  poetical  beauty,  besides  being  an  admirable  trait  of 
character.  The  misfortunes  of  Hermione,  her  long  religious 
seclusion,  the  wonderful  and  almost  supernatural  part  she  has  just 
enacted,  have  invested  her  with  such  a  sacred  and  awful  charm, 
that  any  words  put  into  her  mouth  must,  I  think,  have  injured 
the   solemn    and   profound   pathos  "of  the   situation. 

There  are  several  among  Shakspeare's  characters  which  exercise 
a  far  stronger  power  over  our  feelings,  our  fancy,  our  understanding, 
Ihr.n  that  of  Hermione :  but.  not  one, — unless  perhaps  Cordelia, — 
constructed  upon  so  high  and  pure  a  principle.  It  is  the  union 
of  gentleness  with  power,  which  constitutes  the  perfection  of 
mental  grace.  Thus  among  the  ancients,  with  whom  the  graces 
were  also  the  charities  (to  show,  perhaps,  that  while  form  alone 
may  constitute  beauty,  sentiment  is  necessary  to  grace),  one  and 
the  same  word  signified  equally  strength  and  virtue.  This  feeling, 
carried  into  the  fine  arts,  was  the  secret  of  the  antique  grace — the 
grace  of  repose.  The  same  eternal  nature — the  same  sense  of 
immutable  truth  and  beauty,  which  revealed  this  sublime  principle  of 
art  to  the  ancient  Greeks,  revealed  it  to  the  genius  of  Shakspeare; 
and  the  character  of  Hermione,  in  which  we  have  the  same  largeness 
of  conception  and  delicacy  of  execution, — the  same  effect  of 
suffering-  without  passion,  and  grandeur  without  effort,  is  an  instance, 
I    think,   that    he    felt    within    himself,    and   by   intuition,   what  we 


•  Winter's   Tale,  act  v.  scene   11. 


H  E  R  M  I  O  N  E  .  149 

study  all  our  lives  in  the  remains  of  ancient  art.  The  cairn, 
regular,  classical  beauty  of  Hermione's  character  is  the  more 
impressive  from  the  wild  and  gothic  accompaniments  of  her  story, 
aud  the  beautiful  relief  afforded  by  the  pastoral  and  romantic  grace 
which  is  thrown   around  her  daughter   Perdita. 

The  character  of  Paulina,  in  the  Winter's  Tale,  though  it  has 
obtained  but  little  notice,  and  no  critical  remark  (that  I  have  seen), 
is  yet  one  of  the  striking  beauties  of  the  play ;  and  it  has  its 
moral  too.  As  we  see  running  through  the  whole  universe  that 
principle  of  contrast  which  may  be  called  the  life  of  nature,  so 
we  behold  it  everywhere  illustrated  in  Shakspeare :  upon  this 
principle  he  has  placed  Emilia  beside  Desdemona,  the  nurse  beside 
Juliet ;  the  clowns  and  dairy-maids,  and  the  merry  pedlar  thief 
Autolycus  round  Florizel  and  Perdita^ — and  made  Paulina  the 
friend   of  Hermione. 

Paulina  does  not  fill  any  ostensible  office  near  the  person  of  the 
queen,  but  is  a  lady  of  high  rank  in  the  court — the  wife  of  the 
Lord  Antigones.       She    is    a  character  strongly  drawn  from   real  and 

common     life a      clever,     generous,     strong-minded,     warm-hearted 

woman,  fearless  in  asserting  the  truth,  firm  in  her  sense  of  right, 
enthusiastic  in  all  her  affections ;  quick  in  thought,  resolute  in 
word,  and  energetic  in  action;  but  heedless,  hot-tempered,  impatient, 
loud,  bold,  voluble,  and  turbulent  of  tongue;  regardless  of  the 
feelings  of  those  for  whom  she  would  sacrifice  her  life,  and  injuring 
from  excess  of  zeal  those  whom  she  most  wishes  to  serve.  How 
many  such  are  there  in  the  world  !  But  Paulina,  though  a  very 
termagant,  is  yet  a  poetical  termagant  in  her  way ;  and  the 
manner  in  which  all  the  evil  and  dangerous  tendencies  of  such 
a  temper  are  placed  before  us,  even  while  the  individual  character 
preserves  the  strongest  hold  upon  our  respect  and  admiration, 
forms  an  impressive  lesson,  as  well  as  a  natural  and  delightful 
portrait. 

In  the  scene,  for  instance,  where  she  brings  the  mfant  before 
Leontes,  with  the  hope  of  softening  him  to  a  sense  of  liis 
injustice — "  an  office  which, "  as  she  observes,  "  becomes  a  woman 
best" — her  want  of  self-government,  her  bitter,  inconsiderate 
reproaches,   only   add,   as  we  might    easily  suppose,  to  his  fury. 


150  11  E  R  M  I  O  x\  E 


I  say  I  come 

From  your  good  queen ! 


Good  queen ! 


Good  queen,  my  lord,  good  queen  :  I  say  good  queen ; 
And  would  by  combat  make  her  good,  so  were  I 
A  man,  the  worst  about  you. 


Force  her  hence. 


Let  him  that  makes  but  trifles  of  nis  eyes. 

First  hand  me  :  on  mine  own  accord  I  '11  oflT; 

But  first  I  '11  do  mine  errand.     The  good  queen 

(For  she  is  good)  hath  brought  you  forth  a  daughter — 

Here  'tis ;  commends  it  to  your  blessing. 


Traitors  ! 
Will  you  not  push  her  out?    Give  her  the  bastard. 


For  ever 
Unvenerable  be  thy  hands,  if  thou 
Tak'st  up  the  princess  by  that  forced  baseness 
Which  he  has  put  upon  't ! 

LEONTES. 

He  dreads  his  wife. 


PAULINA. 

So,  I  would  you  did ;  then  'twere  past  all  doubt 
You'd  call  your  children  your's. 


H  E  R  :\I  1  O  X  E  . 


151 


LEONTES 


A   callat, 
Of  boundless  tongue,  who  late  hath  beat  her  husband, 
And  now  baits  me  !— this  brat  is  none  of  mine. 


It  is  yours, 
And  might  we  lay  the  old  proverb  to  your  charge, 
So  like  you,  'tis  the  worse. 


LEONTES. 

A  gross  hag! 
And  lozel,  thou  art  worthy  to  be  hang'd. 
That  wilt  not  stay  her  tongue. 

AJJTTGONES. 

Hang  all  the  husbands 
That  cannot  do  that  feat,  you'll  leave  yourself 
Hardly  one  subject. 

LEONTES. 

Once  more,  take  her  hence. 

PAULINA. 

A  most  unworthy  and  unnatural  lord 
Can  do  no  more. 

LEONTES. 

I  '11  have  thee  bum'd. 

PAULINA. 

I  care  not : 
It  is  an  heretic  that  makes  the  lire, 
Not  she  which  bums  in  't. 


J  52  H  K  R  :.[  [  L)  S  E  . 

Here,  while  v;o  honor  her  courage  and  her  atiVHlion,  we 
cannot  help  icgrctthag  her  violence.  We  see,  too,  in  Paulina, 
what  we  so  often  see  in  real  life,  that  it  is  not  those  who  are 
most  susceptihle  in  their  own  temper  and  feelings,  who  are  most 
delicate  and  forbearing  towards  the  feelings  of  others.  She  does 
not.  comprehend,  or  will  not  allow  for  the  sensitive  weakness  of 
a  mind  less  firmly  tempered  than  her  own.  There  is  a  reply 
of  Leontes  to  one  of  her  cutting  speeches,  which  is  full  of 
feeling,  and  a  lesson  to  those,  who,  with  the  best  intentions  in  the 
world,  force  the  painful  truth,  like  a  knife,  into  the  already  lacerated 
heart. 


If,  one  by  one,  you  wedded  all  the  world, 
Or,  from  the  all  that  are  took  something  good 
To  make  a  perfect  woman,  she  you  kill'd 
Would  be  unparallel'd. 


I  think  so.     Kill'd! 

She  I  kill'd  ?     I  did  so :  but  thou  strik'st  me 

Sorely,  to  say  I  did  ;  it  is  as  bitter 

Upon  thy  tongue,  as  in  my  thought.     Now,  good  now, 

Say  so  but  seldom. 

CLEOMENES. 

Not  at  all,  good  lady  : 

You  might  have  spoken  a  thousand  things  that  would 
Have  done  the  time  more  benefit,  and  grac'd 
Your  kindness  better. 


We  can  only  excuse  Paulina  by  recollecting  that  it  is  a  part  of 
her  purpose  to  keep  alive  in  the  heart  of  Leontes  the  remembrance 
of  his  queen's  perfections,  and  of  his  own  cruel  injustice.  It  is 
admirable,  too,  that  Hermione  and  Paulina,  while  sufHciently 
approximated    to    afford    all     the    pleasure    of    contrast,    are     never 


H  E  R  M  I  O  N  E  .  153 

brought  too  nearly  in  contact  on  the  scene  or  in  the  dialogue;* 
for  this  would  have  been  a  fault  in  taste,  and  have  necessarily 
weakened  the  effect  of  both  characters : — either  the  serene  grandeur 
of  Hermione  would  have  subdued  and  overawed  the  fiery  spirit  of 
Paulina,  or  the  impetuous  temper  of  the  latter  must  have  disturbed 
in  some  respect  our  impression  of  the  calm,  majestic,  and  somewhat 
melancholy  beauty   of  Hermione. 

•  Only  in  the  last  scene,  when  with  solemnity  befitting  the  occasion,  Paulina 
invokes  the  majestic  figure  to  "  descend,  and  be  stone  no  more,"  and  where  she 
presents   her  daughter   to   her,  "  Turn,  good   lady !   our  Perdita  is  found." 


20 


^".jae^TTic'Tz/z. 


rj' 


DESDEMONA. 


The  character  of  Hermione  is  addressed  more  to  the  imagination ; 
that  of  Desdemona  to  the  feelings.  All  that  can  render  sorrow 
majestic  is  gathered  round  Hermione;  all  that  can  render  misery 
heart-breaking  is  assembled  round  Desdemona.  The  wronged  but 
self-sustained  virtue  of  Hermione  commands  our  veneration;  the 
injured  and  defenceless  innocence  of  Desdemona  so  ^vrings  the  soul, 
"that   all   for   pity  we   could  die." 

Desdemona,  as  a  character,  comes  nearest  to  Miranda,  both  in 
herself  as  a  woman,  and  in  the  perfect  simplicity  and  unity  of 
the  delineation;  the  figures  are  differently  draped— the  proportions 
are  the  same.  There  is  the  same  modesty,  tenderness,  and  grace; 
the  same  artless  devotion  in  the  affections,  the  same  predisposition 
to  wonder,  to  pity,  to  admire;  the  same  almost  ethereal  refinement 
and  delicacy;  but  all  is  pure  poetic  nature  within  Miranda  and 
around  her:  Desdemona  is  more  associated  with  the  palpable 
realities  of  every-day  existence,  and  we  see  the  forms  and  habits 
of  society  tinting  her  language  and  deportment ;  no  two  beings  can 
be  more   alike   in  character— nor  more  distinct   as   individuals. 

The  love  of  Desdemona  for  Othello  appears  at  first  such  a 
violation  of  all  probabilities,  that  her  father  at  once  imputes  it  to 
magic,  "to  spells   and  mixtures  powerful   o'er  the  blood." 


She,  in  spite  of  nature, 
Of  years,  of  country,  credit,  everything. 
To  fall  in  love  with  what  she  feared  to  look  ou! 


156  D  E  S  I)  E  -M  O  N  A  . 

And  the  devilish  malignity  of  lago,  whose  coarse  mind  cannot 
conceive  an  affection  founded  purely  in  sentiment,  derives  from  her 
love   itself  a  strong   argument   against   her. 

Ay,  there's  the  point,  as  to  be  bold  with  you, 
Not  to  afiect  many  proposed  matches 
Of  her  own  clime,  complexion,  and  degree, 
Whereto,  we  see,  in  all  things  nature  tends,*  &c. 

Notwithstanding  this  disparity  of  age,  character,  country, 
complexion,  we,  who  are  admitted  into  the  secret,  see  her  love 
rise  naturally  and  necessarily  out  of  the  leading  propensities  of  her 
nature. 

At  the  period  of  the  story  a  spirit  of  wild  adventure  had 
seized  all  Europe.  The  disco\ery  of  both  Indies  was  yet  recent: 
over  the  shores  of  the  western  hemisphere  still  fable  and  mystery 
hung,  with  all  their  dim  enchantments,  visionary  terrors,  and  golden 
promises !  perilous  expeditions  and  distant  voyages  were  every  day 
undertaken  from  hope  of  plunder,  or  mere  love  of  enterprise;  and 
from  these  the  adventurers  returned  with  tales  of  "  Antres  vast  and 
desarts  wild — of  cannibals  that  did  each  other  eat — of  Anthropophagi, 
and  men  whose  heads  did  grow  beneath  their  shoulders. "  With 
just  such  stories  did  Raleigh  and  Clifford,  and  their  followers,  return 
from  the  New  World;  and  thus  by  their  splendid  or  fearful 
exaggerations,  which  the  imperfect  knowledge  of  those  times  could 
not  refute,  was  the  passion  for  the  romantic  and  marvellous  nourished 
at  home,  particularly  among  the  women.  A  cavalier  of  those  days 
had  no  nearer,  no  surer  way  to  his  mistress's  heart,  than  by 
entertainins:  her  with  these  wondrous  narratives.  What  was  a 
general  feature  of  his  time,  Shakspeare  seized  and  adapted  to  his 
purpose  with  the  most  exquisite  felicity  of  effect.  Desdemona,  leav- 
ing her  household  cares  in  haste,  to  hang  breathless  on  Othello's  tales, 
was  doubtless  a  picture  from  the  life ;  and  her  inexperience  and  her 
quick  imagination  lend  it  an  added  propriety  :  then  her  compassionate 
disposition    is   interested   by  all   the    disastrous   chances,    hair-breadth 

Act  ill.,  Scene  3. 


D  E  S  D  E  M  O  N  A  .  157 

'scapes,  and  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field,  of  which  he  has  to 
tell;  and  her  exceeding  gentleness  and  timidity,  and  her  domestic 
turn  of  mind,  render  her  more  easily  captivated  by  the  military  renown, 
the  valor,  and  lofty  bearing  of  the  noble  Moor — 

And  to  his  honors  and  his  valiant  parts 
Does  she  her  soul  and  fortunes  consecrate. 

The  confession  and  the  excuse  for  her  love  is  well  placed  in  the 
mouth  of  Desdemona,  while  the  history  of  the  rise  of  that  love,  and 
of  his  course  of  wooing,  is,  with  the  most  graceful  propriety,  as  far 
as  she  is  concerned,  spoken  by  Othello,  and  in  her  absence.  The 
last  two  lines  summing  up  the  whole — 

She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  passed, 
And  I  loved  her  that  she  did  pity  them — 

comprise  whole  volumes  of  sentiment  and  metaphysics. 

Desdemona  displays  at  times  a  transient  energy,  arising  from  the 
power  of  affection,  but  gentleness  gives  the  prevailing  tone  to 
the  character — gentleness  in  its  excess — gentleness  verging  on 
passiveness — gentleness,  which  not  only  cannot  resent — but  cannot 
resist. 

OTHELLO. 

Then  of  so  gentle  a  condition ! 

lAGO.     ■ 

Ay !  too  gentle. 

OTHELLO. 

Nay,  that's  certain. 

Here  the  exceeding  softness  of  Desdemona's  temper  is  turned 
against  her  by  lago,  so  that  it  suddenly  strikes  Othello  in  a  new 
point  of  view,  as  the  inability  to  resist  temptation ;  but  to  us 
who  perceive  the  character   as   a  whole,  this   extreme  gentleness   of 


108  D  E  S  D  E  M  O  N  A  . 

nature  is  yet  delineated  with  such  exceeding  refinement,  that  the 
effect  never  approaches  to  feebleness.  It  is  true  that  once  her 
extreme  timidity  leads  her  in  a  moment  of  confusion  and  terror 
to  prevaricate  about  the  fatal  handkerchief.  This  handkerchief,  in 
the  original  story  of  Cinthio,  is  merely  one  of  those  embroidered 
handkerchiefs  which  were  as  fashionable  in  Shakspeare's  time  as  in 
our  own ;  but  the  minute  description  of  it  as  "  lavorato  alia  morisco 
sottilissimamente,"*  suggested  to  the  poetical  fancy  of  Shakspeare 
one  of  the  most  exquisite  and  characteristic  passages  in  the  whole 
play.  Othello  makes  poor  Desdemona  believe  that  the  handkerchief 
was    a   talisman. 

There's  magic  in  the  web  of  it. 
A  sybil,  that  had  numbered  in  the  world 
The  sun  to  make  two  hundred  compasses, 
In  her  prophetic  fury  sew'd  the  work: 
The  worms  were  hallowed  that  did  breed  the  silk, 
And  it  was  dyed  in  mummy,  which  the   skilful 
Conserv'd  of  maidens'  hearts. 

DESDEMONA. 

Indeed  !  is  't  true  ? 

OTHELLO. 

Most  veritable,  therefore  look  to  't  well. 

DESDEMONA. 

Then  would  to  heaven  that  I  had  never  seen  it! 

OTHELLO. 

Ha  !  wherefore ! 

DESDEMONA. 

Why  do  you  speak  so  startingly  and  rash  ? 


•  Which  being  interpreted   into  modern  English,  means,  I  believe,  nothing  more 
than  that  the  pattern  was  what  we  now  call  arabesque 


D  E  S  D  E  M  O  N  A  .  .159 

OTHELLO. 

Is  't  lost, — Is  't  gone  ?    Speak,  is  it  out  of  the  way  ? 

DESDEMONA, 

Heavens  bless  us  ! 


Say  you  ? 

DESDEMOXA- 

It  is  not  lost — but  what  an'  if  it  were  ? 

OTHELLO. 

Ha! 

DESDEMONA. 

I  say  it  is  not  lost. 

OTHELLO. 

Fetdi  it,  let  mo  see  it. 

DESDEMONA. 

Wliy  so  I  can,  sir,  but  I  will  not  now.  &c. 

Desdemona,  whose  soft  credulity,  whose  turn  for  the  marvellous, 
whose  susceptible  imagination,  had  first  directed  her  thoughts  and 
affections  to  Othello,  is  precisely  the  woman  to  be  frightened  out 
of  her  senses  by  such  a  tale  as  this,  and  betrayed  by  her  fears  into 
a  momentary  tergiversation.  It  is  most  natural  in  such  a  being,  and 
shows  us  that  even  in  the  sweetest  natures  there  can  be  no 
completeness  and  consistency  without  moral  energy.  * 


•There  is  an  incident  in  tlie  original  tale,  "II  Moro  di  Venezia,"  which  could 
not  well  be  transferred  to  the  drama,  but  which  is  very  eOectivu,  and  adds,  I  think, 
to  the  circumstantial  horrors  of  the  story.  Desdemona  does  not  accidentally  drop 
llie  handkerchief;  it  is  stolon  from  her  by  lago's  little  child,  an  infant  of  three 
rears  old.  whom    lie  trains  or  bribes  to  the  theft.     The    love    of  Desdemona  for  this 


IGO  D  E  S  D  E  M  O  N  A  . 

With  the  most  perfect  artlessness,  she  has  something  of  the 
instinctive,  unconscious  address  of  her  sex  j  as  when  she  appeals 
to   her   father — 


So  much  duty  as  my  mother  show'd 
To  you,  preferring  you  before  her  father, 
So  much  I  challenge,  that  I  may  profess 
Due  to  the  Moor,  my  lord. 

And  when  she   is   pleading  for   Cassio — 

What !  Michael  Cassio  ! 
That  came  a  wooing  witii  you  ;  and  many  a  time, 
When  I  have  spoken  of  you  disparagingly 
Hath  ta'en  your  part. 

In  persons,  who  unite  great  sensibility  and  lively  fancy,  I 
have  often  observed  this  particular  species  of  address,  which  is 
always  unconscious  of  itself,  and  consists  in  the  power  of  placing 
ourselves  in  the  position  of  another,  and  imagining,  rather  than 
perceiving,  what  is  in  their  hearts.  We  women  have  this  address 
(if  so  it  can  be  called)  naturally,  but  I  have  seldom  met  with 
it  in  men.  It  is  not  inconsistent  with  extreme  simplicity  of 
character,  and  quite  distinct  from  that  kind  of  art  which  is  the 
result  of  natural  acuteness  and  habits  of  observation — quick  to 
perceive  the  foibles  of  others,  and  as  quick  to  turn  them  to  its 
own  purposes;  which  is  always  conscious  of  itself,  and  if  united 
wth  strong  intellect,  seldom  perceptible  to  others.  In  the  mention 
of  her  mother,  and  the  appeal  to  Othello's  self-love,  Desdemona 
has  no  design  formed  on  conclusions  previously  drawn ;  but  her 
intuitive  quickness   of   feeling,   added   to   her    imagination,   lead    her 


child,  her  little  playfellow — the  pretty  description  of  her  taking;  it  in  her  arms  and 
caressing  it,  while  it  profits  by  its  situation  to  steal  the  handkerchief  from  her 
bosom,  are  well  imagined,  and  beautifully  told ;  and  the  circumstance  of  lago 
employing  his  own  innocent  child  as  the  instrument  of  his  infernal  villany,  adds  a 
deeper,  and,  in  truth,  an  unnecessary  touch  of  the  fiend,  to  his  fiendish  character. 


D  E  S  D  E  M  O  N  A  .  161 

more    safely  to   the    same    results,    and    the    distinction    is   as    truly 
as    it   is   delicately   drawn. 

When  Othello  first  outrages  her  in  a  manner  which  appears 
inexplicable,  she  seeks  and  finds  excuses  for  him  She  is  so 
innocent  that  not  only  she  cannot  believe  herself  suspected,  but 
she   cannot   conceive  the    existence   of   guilt   in   others. 

Something,  sure,  of  state, 
Either  from  Venice,  or  some  iinhatch'd  practice 
Made  demonstrable  here  in  Cyprus  to  him. 
Hath  puddled  his  clear  spirit. 

'Tis  even  so — 
Nay,  we  must  think,  men  are  not  gods, 
Nor  of  them  look  for  such  observances 
As  fit  the  bridal. 


And  w^hen  the  direct  accusation  of  crime  is  flung  on  her  in  the 
vilest  terms,  it  does  not  anger  but  stun  her,  as  if  it  transfixed 
her  whole  being ;  she  attempts  no  reply,  no  defence ;  and  reproach 
or   resistance   never    enters   her  thouo;ht. 


Good  friend,  go  to  him — for  by  this  light  of  heaven 
I  know  not  how  I  lost  him :  here  I  kneel : — 
If    e'er  my  will  did  trespass  'gainst  his  love, 
Either  in  discourse  of  thought  or  actual  deed ; 
Or  that  mine  eyes,  mine  ears,  or  any  sense, 
Delighted  them  in  any  other  form  ; 
Or  that  I  do  not  yet,  and  ever  did, 
And  ever  will,  though  he  do  shake  me  off 
To  beggarly  divorcement,  love  him  dearly. 
Comfort  forswear  me  I     Unkindness  may  do  much, 
And  his  unkindness  may  defeat  my  life. 
But  never  taint  my  love. 

And  there  is  one  stroke  of  consummate  delicacy  surprising,  when 
we  remember  the  latitude  of  expression  prevailing  in  Shakspeare's 
time,  and  which  he  allowed  to  his  other  women  generally;  she 
says,   on   recovering   from   her   stupefaction — 

21 


162  D  E  S  D  E  M  O  N  A  . 

Am  I  that  name,  Tago? 

lAGO. 

What  name    sweet  lady  ? 

DESDEMONA. 

That,  which  she  says  my  lord  did  say  I  was. 

So  completely   did    Shakspeare   enter   into   the   angelic  refinement   of 
the   cliaracter. 

Endued  with  that  temper  ^vhich  is  the  origin  of  superstition  in 
love  as  in  religion, — which,  in  fact,  makes  love  itself  a  religion, — 
she  not  only  does  not  utter  an  upbraiding,  but  nothing  that 
Othello  does  or  says,  no  outrage,  no  injustice,  can  tear  away  the 
charm  w^th  which  her  imagination  had  invested  him,  or  impair 
her  faith  in  his  honor ;  "  wovdd  you  had  never  seen  him !  " 
exclaims  Emilia. 

DESDEMONA. 

So  would  not  1 1 — my  love  doth  so  approve  him, 
That  even  his  stubbornness,  his  checks  and  frowns 
Have  grace  and  favor  in  them. 

There  is  another  peculiarity,  which,  in  reading  the  play  of 
Othello,  we  rather  feel  than  perceive :  through  the  whole  of  the 
dialogue  appropriated  to  Desdemona,  there  is  not  one  general 
observation.  Words  are  with  her  the  vehicle  of  sentiment,  and 
never  of  reflection ;  so  that  I  cannot  fmd  throughout  a  sentence 
of  general  application.  The  same  remark  applies  to  Miranda: 
and  to  no  other  female  character  of  any  importance  or  interest ; 
not   even   to   Ophelia. 

The  rest  of  what  I  wished  to  say  of  Desdemona  has  been 
anticipated  by  an  anonymous  critic,  and  so  beautifully,  so  justly, 
so  eloquently  expressed,  that  I  with  pleasure  erase  my  own  page, 
to   make   room   for   his. 

"Othello,"  observes  this  writer,  "is  no  love  story;  all  that  is 
below   tragedy   in   the  passion   of    love,   is   taken    away   at   once,   by 


1)  E  S  D  E  M  O  N  A  .  J63 

the    awful    character  of    Othello ;    for    such    he   seems    to    us    lo    be 
designed   to   he.       He   appears   never    as    a   lover,   but   at   once    as    a 
husband:    and   the   relation    of    his    love   made    dignified,    as   it   is    a 
husband's  justification    of  his    marriage,    is    also    dignified,  as    it    is  a 
soldier's    relation    of    his   stern    and    perilous    life.       His    love   itself, 
as     long      as     it     is     happy,     is    perfectly     calvn     and     serene — the 
protecting   tenderness   of  a  husband.      It    is  not   till    it    is  disordered, 
that  it  appears  as  a  passion  :    then    is  shown   a   power  in  contention 
with     itself — a   mighty   being   struck    with    death,    and   bringing    up 
from    all    the    depths    of    life   convulsions    and    agonies.       It   is    no 
exhibition  of  the   power  of  the   passion   of  love,  but   of  the   passion 
of    life,   vitally   wounded,    and    self    over-mastering.       If    Desdemona 
had  been    really   guilty,   the    greatness   would    have   been    destroyed, 
because    his    love    would    have   been    unworthy,   false.      But    she   is 
good,   and   his   love   is   most    perfect,  just,   and   good.        That  a  man 
should    place    his    perfect    love    on    a    wretched   thing,  is    miserably 
debasing,    and    shocking    to    thought ;      but     that    loving     perfectly 
and   well,  he   should   by  hellish   human   circumvention   be   brought  to 
distrust    and    dread,     and    abjure     his    own    perfect    love,    is    most 
mournful  *  indeed — it   is   the    infirmity   of    our   good   nature    wrestling 
in  vain   with  the   strong   powers  of  evil.      Moreover,  he   would,  had 
Desdemona     been     false,     have     been     the     mere     victim     of     fate ; 
whereas   he   is   now   in   a   manner  his   own   victim.     His   happy  love 
was    heroic   tenderness;     his    injured    love    is    terrible    passion;     and 
disordered    power,    engenJered   within   itself  to    its    own   destruction, 
is   the   height   of  all   tragedy. 

"  The  character  of  Othello  is  perhaps  the  most  greatly  drawn, 
the  most  heroic  of  any  of  Shakspeare's  actors ;  but  it  is,  perhaps, 
that  one  also  of  which  his  reader  last  acquires  the  intelligence. 
The  intellectual  and  warlike  energy  of  his  mind — his  tenderness  of 
affection — his  loftiness  of  spirit — his  frank,  generous  magnanimity — 
impetuosity  like  a  thunderbolt — and  that  dark,  fierce  flood  of  boiling 
passion,  polluting  even  his  imagination, — compose  a  character  entirely 
original,  most  difficult  to  delineate,  but  perfectly  delineated." 

Emilia  in  this  play  is  a  perfect  portrait  from  common  life,  a 
masterpiece  in  the  Flemish  style :  and  though  not  necessary  as  a 
contrast,    it    cannot    be    but    tliat    the    thorough    vulgarity,    the    loose 


164  D  E  S  D  E  M  O  N  A  . 

principles  of  this  plebeian  woman,  united  to  a  high  degree  of  spirit, 
energetic  feeling,  strong  sense  and  low  cunning,  serve  to  place  in 
brighter  relief  the  exquisite  refinement,  the  moral  grace,  the 
unblemished  truth,  and  the  soft  submission  of  Desdemona. 

On  the  other  perfections  of  this  tragedy,  considered  as  a  production 
of  genius — on  the  wonderful  chai'acters  of  Othello  and  lago — on   the 
skill  with  which    the    plot    is    conducted,  and    its  simplicity  which    a 
word  unravels,*  and  on  the  overpowering  horror  of  the  catastrophe — 
eloquence  and  analytical    criticism   have  been    exhausted  j  I  will   only 
add,  that  the  source  of  the  pathos    throughout — of  that  pathos  which 
at  once  softens  and  deepens   the    tragic    effect — lies  in    the  character 
of  Desdemona.     No  woman  diiferently  constituted  could   have  excited 
the  same  intense  and   painful    compassion,  without    losing   something 
of  that    exalted    charm,  which    invests    her    from    beginning    to   end, 
which  we  are  apt  to    impute    to  the    interest  of  the  situation,  and  to 
the  poetical  coloring,  but  which  lies,  in  fact,  in  the  very    essence  of 
the    character.      Desdemona,  with    all   her   timid    flexibility    and    soft 
acquiescence,  is  not  weak;  for    the    negative  alone    is  weak;  and  the 
mere  presence  of  goodness  and    affection    implies    in  itself    a   species 
of  power ;  power  without   consciousness,  power  without    efToi't,  power 
with  repose — that  soul  of  grace  ! 

I  knew  a  Desdemona  in  real  life,  one  in  whom  the  absence  of 
Intellectual  power  is  never  felt  as  a  deficiency,  nor  the  absence  of 
energy  of  will  as  impairing  the  dignity,  nor  the  most  impertm-bable 
serenity,  as  a  want  of  feeling :  one  in  whom  thoughts  appear  mere 
instincts,  the  sentiment  of  rectitude  supplies  the  principle,  and  virtue 
itself  seems  rather  a  necessary  state  of  being,  than  an  imposed  law 
No  shade  of  sin  or  vanity  has  yet  stolen  over  that  bright  innocence. 
No  discord  within  has  marred  the  loveliness  without — no  strife  of 
the  factitious  world  without  has  disturbed  the  harmony  within.  The 
comprehension  of  evil  appears  for  ever  shut  out,  as  if   goodness    had 


*  Consequences  are  so  linked  together,  that  the  exclamation   of  Emilia, 

0  thou  dull  Moor  ! — That  handkerchief  thou  sjjeakest  of 

1  found  by  fortune,  and  did  give  my  husband ! 

is  sufficient  to  reveal  to  Othello  the  whole  historv  of   his  ruin. 


DESDEMONA.  165 

converted  all  things  to  itself;  and  all  to  the  pure  in  heart  must 
necessarily  he  pure.  The  impression  produced  is  exactly  that  of  the 
character  of  Desderaona;  genius  is  a  rare  thing,  but  abstract  goodness 
is  rarer.  In  Desdemona  \vc  cannot  but  feel  that  the  slightest 
manifestation  of  intellectual  power  or  active  will  would  have  injured 
the  dramatic  effect.  She  is  a  victim  consecrated  from  the  first, — 
"  an  offering  without  blemish,"  alone  worthy  of  the  grand  final 
sacrifice ;  all  harmony,  all  grace,  all  purity,  all  tenderness,  all  truth  ! 
But,  alas !  to  see  her  fluttering  like  a  cherub,  in  the  talons  of  a 
fiend  ! — to  see  her — 0  poor  Desdemona  ! 


'^Mcighi 


IMOGEN. 


We  now  come  to   Imogen.      Others  of  Shakspeare's  characters  are, 
as   dramatic    and  poetical   conceptions,  more  striking,   more   brilliant, 
more  powerful ;  but  of  all  his  women,  considered  as  individuals  rather 
than  as  heroines,  Imogen  is  the   most  perfect.      Portia  and  Juliet  are 
pictured    to   the   fancy  with   more    force    of  contrast,   more    depth  ot 
light  and  shade  ;   Viola   and   Miranda,   with   more    aerial   delicacy  of 
outline ;   but   there    is    no   female  portrait    that   can  be   compared   to 
Imogen  as  a  woman— none  in  which    so   great  a  variety  of  tints   are 
mingled  together  into  such    a    perfect   harmony.     In  her  we  have  all 
Ihe  fervor  of  youthful  tenderness,   all   the   romance  of  youthful  fancy, 
all  the  enchantment  of  ideal  grace,— the  bloom  of  beauty,  the  brightness 
of  intellect,    and  the  dignity  of  rank,  taking  a  peculiar  hue  from  the 
conjugal  character  which  is  shed    over  all,  like  a  consecration    and   a 
holy  charm.     In  Othello    and  the  Winter's  Tale,    the    interest  excited 
for  Desdemona  and  Hermione  is  divided  with  others  :  but  in  Cymbeline, 
Imogen   is    the    angel    of  light,  whose    lovely  presence    pervades   and 
animates  the  whole  piece.     The  character  altogether  may  be  pronounced 
finer,  more  complex  in    its  elements,  and  more   fully  developed  in  all 
its   parts,  than  those  of  Hermione  and   Desdemona  ;  but   the   position 
in   which   she    is    placed    is   not,   I   think,   so    fine-at   least,   not   so 
effective,  as  a  tragic  situation. 

Shalispeare  has  borrowed  the  chief  circumstances  of  Imogen's  story 
from  one  of  Boccaccio's  tales.* 

A  company  of  Italian  merchants  who  are  assembled  in  a  tavern  at 
Paris,  are  represented    as    conversing  on    the  subject  of  their  wives  : 

*  Decamerone.     Novella,  G-""-     Giornata,  a^" 


168  I  U  O  G  E  x\^  . 

all  of  them  express  themselves  with  levity,  or  scepticism,  or  scorn 
on  the  virtue  of  women,  except  a  young  Genoese  merchant  named 
Bernabo,  who  maintains,  that  by  the  especial  favor  of  Heaven  he 
possesses  a  wife  no  less  chaste  than  beautiful.  Heated  by  the  wine, 
and  excited  by  the  arguments  and  the  coarse  raillery  of  another 
young  merchant,  Ambrogiolo,  Bernabo  proceeds  to  enumerate  the 
various  perfections  and  accomplishments  of  his  Zinevra.  He  praises 
her  loveliness,  her  submission  and  her  discretion — her  skill  in 
embroidery,  her  graceful  service,  in  which  the  best  trained  page  of 
the  court  could  not  exceed  her ;  and  he  adds,  as  rarer  accomplishments, 
that  she  could  moi^nt  a  horse,  fly  a  hawk,  write  and  read,  and  cast 
up  accounts,  as  well  as  any  merchant  of  them  all.  His  enthusiasm 
only  excites  the  laughter  and  mockery  of  his  companions,  particularly 
of  Ambrogiolo,  who,  by  the  most  artful  mixture  of  contradiction 
and  argument,  rouses  the  anger  of  Bernabo,  and  he  at  length 
exclaims,  that  he  would  willingly  stake  his  life,  his  head,  on  tlie 
virtue  of  his  wife.  This  leads  to  the  wager  which  forms  so  important 
an  incident  in  the  drama.  Ambrogiolo  bets  one  thousand  florins  of 
gold  against  five  thousand,  that  Zinevra,  like  the  rest  of  her  sex,  is 
accessible  to  temptation — tliat  in  less  than  three  months  he  will 
undermine  her  virtue,  and  bring  her  husband  the  most  undeniable 
proofs  of  her  falsehood.  He  sets  off  for  Genoa,  in  order  to  accomplish 
his  purpose ;  but  on  his  arrival,  all  that  he  learns,  and  all  that  he 
beholds  with  his  own  eyes,  of  the  discreet  and  noble  character  of 
the  lady,  make  him  despair  of  success  by  fair  means  ;  he  therefore 
has  recourse  to  the  basest  treachery.  By  bribing  an  old  woman  in 
the  service  of  Zinevra,  he  is  conveyed  to  her  sleeping  aparljnent, 
concealed  in  a  trunk,  from  which  he  issues  in  the  dead  of  the  night ; 
takes  note  of  the  furniture  of  the  chamber,  makes  himself  master 
of  her  purse,  her  morning  robe,  or  cymar,  and  her  girdle,  and  of  a 
certain  mark  on  her  person.  He  repeats  these  observations  for  two 
nights,  and,  furnished  with  these  evidences  of  Zinevra's  guilt,  he 
returns  to  Paris,  and  lays  them  before  the  wretched  husband. 
Bernabo  rejects  every  proof  of  his  wife's  infidelity,  except  that  which 
finally  convinces  Posthumus.  When  Ambrogiolo  mentions  the  "  moie, 
cinque-spotted,"  he  stands  like  one  who  has  received  a  poniard  in 
his  heart  ;  without  further  dispute  he  pays  down  the  forfeit,  and  filled 


I  I\I  O  G  E  N  .  1G9 

with  rage  and  despair  both  at  the  loss  of  his  money  and  the  falsehood  of 
his  wife,  he  returns  towards  Genoa  ;  he  retires  to  his  country  house, 
and   sends  a  messenger  to   the  city  with   letters   to   Zinevra,   desiring 
that    she  would    come  and    meet   him,  but  with    secret    orders  to   the 
man   to    dispatch  her  by  the  way.     The    servant   prepares  to    execute 
his  master's   command,  but  overcome  by  her  entreaties  for  mercy,  and 
his  own  remorse,   he   spares   her   life,  on   condition  that  she   will  fly 
from  the   country  for  ever.     He  then  disguises  her  in   his  own   cloak 
and  cap,  and  brings   back   to   her  husband   the   assurance  that  she  is 
killed,  and  that  her   body  has  been  devoured   by  the  wolves.     In  the 
disguise  of  a  mariner,  Zinevra  then  embarks  on  board  a  vessel  bound 
to  'the  Levant,  and   on   arriving  at  Alexandria,  she  is  taken  into  the 
service  of  the    Sultan    of  Egypt,   under  the   name   of   Sicurano  ;    she 
gains    the   confidence   of    her    master,    who,  not   suspecting   her   sex, 
sends    her   as    captain    of  the   guard   which   was    appointed    for    the 
protection  of  the  merchants  at  the  fair  of  Acre.     Here  she  accidentally 
meets    Ambrogiolo,  and  sees  in  his  possession   the  purse  and    girdle, 
which    she    immediately    recognizes    as  her   own.      In  reply   to   her 
inquiries,  he  relates  with  fiendish  exultation  the  manner  in  which  he 
had  obtained  possession  of  them,  and  she  persuades  him  to  go^  back 
with  her  to  Alexandria.     She  then  sends  a  messenger  to  Genoa  in  the 
name  of  the  Sultan,   and  induces   her  husband  to   come  and  settle  in 
Alexandria.     At  a  proper  opportunity,  she  summons  both  to  the  presence 
of  the    Sultan,  obliges   Ambrogiolo  to  make    a  full   confession   of  his 
ti-eachery,  and   wrings  from  her  husband  the    avowal  of  his   supposed 
murder  of  herself;  then  falling  at  the  feet  of  the  Sultan  discovers  her 
r(..al    name   and    sex,   to   the   great    amazement   of    all.      Bernabo   is 
pmdoned   at  the   prayer    of  his  wife,  and  Ambrogiolo    is   condemned 
to  be  fastened  to  a  stake,  smeared  with  honey,  and  left  to  be  devoured 
by   the   flies   and  locusts.     This   horrible   sentcnr;e  is  executed ;  while 
Zinevra,   enriched    by    the    presents    of    the   Sultan,    and   the    forfeit 
wealth   of    Ambrogiolo,   returns   with  her   husband    to    Genoa,   where 
she  lives  in  great  honor  and  happiness,   and  maintains  her  reputaticm 
for  virtue  to  the  end  of  her  life. 

These   are   the   materials   from   which   Shakspeare   has    drawn   the 
dramatic  situation  of  Imogen.     He  has  also  endowed  her  with  several 
of  the  qualities  which  are  attributed  to  Zinevra  ;  but  for  the  essential 
^  22 


170  IMOGEN. 

truth  and  beauty  of  the  individual  character,  for  the  sweet  coloring 
of  pathos,  and  sentiment,  and  poetry  interfused  through  the  whole, 
he  is  indebted  only  to  nature  and  himself. 

It  would  be  a  waste  of  words  to  refute  certain  critics  who  haA'e 
accused  Shakspeare  of  a  want  of  judgment  in  the  adoption  of  the 
story ;  of  having  transferred  the  manners  of  a  set  of  intoxicated 
merchants  and  a  merchant's  wife  to  heroes  and  princesses,  and  of 
having  entirely  destroyed  the  interest  of  the  catastrophe.*  The  truth 
is,  that  Shakspeare  has  w'rought  out  the  materials  before  him  with 
the  most  luxuriant  fancy  and  the  most  wonderful  skill.  As  for  the 
various  anachronisms,  and  the  confusion  of  names,  dates,  and  manners, 
over  which  Dr.  Johnson  exults  in  no  measured  terras,  the  confusion 
is  nowhere  but  in  his  ow^n  heavy  obtuseness  of  sentiment  and  perception, 
and  his  want  of  poetical  faith.  Look  into  the  old  Italian  poets,  whom 
we  read  continually  with  still  increasing  pleasure  ;  does  any  one 
think  of  sitting  down  to  disprove  the  existence  of  Ariodante,  king 
of  Scotland  ?  or  to  prove  that  the  mention  of  Proteus  and  Pluto, 
baptism  and  the  Virgin  Mary,  in  a  breath,  amounts  to  an  anachronism  1 
Shakspeare,  by  throwing  his  story  far  back  into  a  remote  and  uncertain 
age,  has  blended,  by  his  "  own  omnipotent  wall,"  the  marvellous,  the 
heroic,  the  ideal,  and  the  classical, — the  extreme  of  refinement  and 
the  extreme  of  simplicity, — into  one  of  the  loveliest  fictions  of  romantic 
poetry  ;  and,  to  use  Schlegel's  expression,  "  has  made  the  social  manners 
of  the  latest  times  harmonize  with  heroic  deeds,  and  even  w^ith  the 
appearances  of  the  gods."t 

But,  admirable  as  is  the  conduct  of  the  whole  play,  rich  in  variety 
of  character  and  in  picturesque  incident,  its  chief  beauty  and  interest 
is  derived  from  Imogen. 

When  Ferdinand  tells  Miranda  that  she  w'as  "  created  of  every 
creature's  best,"  he  speaks  like  a  lover,  or  refers  only  to  her  personal 
charms :  the  same  expression  might  be  applied  critically  to  the 
character  of  Imogen  ;  for,  as  the  portrait  of  Miranda  is  produced  by 
resolving   the    female   character    into    its   original    elements,   so    that 


•Vide  Dr.  Johnson,  and  Dunlop's  History  of  Fiction. 

t  Se«  Hazlitt  and  Schlegel  on  the  catastrophe  of  Cymbeline. 


IMOGEN.  171 

of  Imogen  unites  the   greatest  number  of  those   qualities  which  we 
imagine  to  constitute  excellence  in  woman. 

Imogen,  like  Juliet,  conveys  to  our  mind  the  impression  of  extreme 
simplicity  in  the  midst  of  the  most  wonderful  complexity.  To 
conceive  her  aright,  we  must  take  some  peculiar  tint  from  many 
characters,  and  so  mingle  them,  that,  like  the  combination  of  hues  in 
a  sunbeam,  the  effect  shall  be  as  one  to  the  eye.  We  must  imagine 
something  of  the  romantic  enthusiasm  of  Juliet,  of  the  truth  and 
constancy  of  Helen,  of  the  dignified  purity  of  Isabel,  of  the  tender 
sweetness  of  Viola,  of  the  self-possession  and  intellect  of  Portia — 
combined  together  so  equally  and  so  harmoniously,  that  we  can  scarcely 
say  that  one  quality  predominates  over  the  other.  But  Imogen  is  less 
imaginative  than  Juliet,  less  spirited  and  intellectual  than  Portia, 
less  serious  than  Helen  and  Isabel ;  her  dignity  is  not  so  imposing 
as  that  of  Hermione,  it  stands  more  on  the  defensive ;  her  submission, 
though  unbounded,  is  not  so  passive  as  that  of  Desdemona ;  and  thus, 
while  she  resembles  each  of  these  characters  individually,  she  stands 
wholly  distinct  from  all. 

It  is  true,  that  the  conjugal  tenderness  of  Imogen  is  at  once  the 
cliicf  subject  of  the  drama,  and  the  pervading  charm  of  her  character ; 
but  it  is  not  true,  I  think,  that  she  is  merely  interesting  from  her 
tenderness  and  constancy  to  her  husband.  We  are  so  completely  let 
into  the  essence  of  Imogen's  nature,  that  we  feel  as  if  we  had  known 
and  loved  her  before  she  was  married  to  Posthumus,  and  that  her 
conjugal  virtues  are  a  charm  superadded,  like  the  color  laid  upon  a 
beautiful  groundwork.  Neither  does  it  appear  to  me,  that  Posthumus 
is  unworthy  of  Imogen,  or  only  interesting  on  Imogen's  account. 
His  character,  like  those  of  all  the  other  persons  of  the  drama,  is 
kept  subordinate  to  hers  :  but  this  could  not  be  otherwise,  for  she 
is  the  proper  subject — the  heroine  of  the  poem.  Everything  is 
done  to  ennoble  Posthumus,  and  justify  her  love  for  him ;  and  though 
we  certainly  approve  him  more  for  her  sake  than  for  his  own,  we 
are  early  prepared  to  view  him  with  Imogen's  eyes ;  and  not  only 
excuse,  but  sympathize  in  her  admiration  of  one 

Who  sat  'mongst  men  like  a  descended  god. 
****** 


172  IMOGEN. 

Wlio  lived  in  court,  '.vhich  it  is  rare  to  do, 
JNIost  praised,  most  loved  : 
A  sample  to  the  youngest ;  to  the  more  mature, 
A  glass  that  feated  them. 

And  Avjth  \vhat  beauty  and  delicacy  is  her  conjugal  and  matronly 
character  discriminated !  Her  love  for  her  husband  is  as  deep  as 
Juliet's  for  her  lover,  but  wichout  any  of  that  headlong  vehemence, 
that  fluttering  amid  hope,  fear  and  transport — that  giddy  intoxication 
of  heart  and  sense,  ^vhich  belongs  to  the  novelty  of  passion,  which 
we  feel  once,  and  but  once,  in  our  lives.  We  see  her  love  for 
Posthumus  acting  upon  her  mind  with  the  force  of  an  habitual 
feeling,  heightened  by  enthusiastic  passion,  and  hallowed  by  the  sense 
of  duty.  She  asserts  and  justifies  her  affection  with  energy  indeed, 
but  with  a  calm  and  wife-like  dignity  :  — 

CYMBELINE. 

Thou  took'st  a  beggar,  would'st  have  made  my  throne 
A  seat  for  baseness. 

I3I0GEN. 

No,  I  rather  added  a  lustre  to  it. 

CYMEELINE. 

O  thou  \'ile  one  ! 

K>        ft. 

IMOGEN. 

Sir, 
It  is  your  fault  that  I  have  loved  Posthumus ; 
You  bred  him  as  my  playfellow,  and  he  is 
A  man  worth  any  woman ;  overbuys  me. 
Almost  the  sum  he  pays. 

Compare  also,  as  examples  of  the  most  delicate  discrimination  of 
character  and  feeling,  the  parting  scene  between  Imogen  and  Posthumus, 
that  between  Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  that  bet\veen  Troilus  and  Cressida  : 
compare  the  confiding  matror.ly  tenderness,  the  deep  but  resigned 
sorrow  of  Imogen,  with  the  despairing  agony  of  Juliet,  and  the 
petulant  grief  of  Cressida. 


IMOGEN.  ^"^^ 

When  Posthumus   is   driven   into   exile,   becomes  to  take  a  last 
farewell  of  his  wife  :  — 

IMOGEN. 

My  dearest  husband, 
I  something  fear  my  father's  urath,  but  nothing 
(Always  reserved  my  holy  duty)  what 
His  rage  can  do  on  me.     You  must  be  gone, 
And  I  "shall  here  abide  the  hourly  shot 
Of  angry  eyes  :  not  comforted  to  live, 
But  that  there  is  this  jewel  in  the  world 
That  I  may  see  again. 

POSTHUMUS. 

My  queen !  my  mistress  ! 
O  lady,  weep  no  more !  lest  I  give  cause 
To  be  suspected  of  more  tenderness 
Than  doth  become  a  man.    I  will  remain 
The  loyal'st  husband  that  did  e'er  plight  troth 

^  *  *  * 

*  *  * 

Should  we  be  taking  leave 
As  long  a  term  as  yet  we  have  to  live, 
The  loathness  to  depart  would  grow-Adieu ! 

IMOGEN. 

Nay,  stay  a  little  : 

Were  you  but  riding  forth  to  air  yourself, 
Such  parting  were  too  petty.    Look  here,  love, 
This  diamond  was  my  mother's;  take  it,  heart ; 
But  keep  it  till  you  woo  another  wife, 
When  Imogen  is  dead  ! 

Imosen,  in  .vhose  tenderness  there  is  nothing  jealous  or  ftnta.stic, 
l„r„or  eriously  apprehend  that  her  l^ushand  ^vill  .00  another  .-.fe, 
trlTdeai  ^It  is  one  of  those  fond  f.cies  .^~  - 
,.  .0  e.press   ■"    — /l^^  W^^'p-^l-^r  h^er, 

rr  n^r-ri  Cent  .—„, « th.  si... 


174  I  AI  O  G  E  i\  . 

stunning,  ovenvhelming  sorrow,  which  renders  the  mind  insensible   to 
all  things  else,  is  represented  with  equal  force  and  simplicity. 


There  cannot  be  a  pinch  in  death 
More  sharp  than  this  is. 

CYMBELINE. 

O  disloyal  thing, 
Tiiat  should'st  repair  my  youth ;  thou  heapest 
A  year's  age  on  me  ! 


I  beseech  you,  sir. 
Harm  not  yourself  with  your  vexation  ;  I 
Am  senseless  of  your  wrath  ;  a  touch  more  rare* 
Subdues  all  pangs,  all  fears. 

CYMBELINE. 

Past  grace  ?  obedience  ? 

IMOGEN. 

Past  hope,  and  in  despair — that  way  past  grace. 

In  the  same  circumstances,  the  impetuous  excited  feelings  of  Juliet, 
and  her  vivid  imagination,  lend  something  far  more  wildly  agitated, 
more  intensely  poetical  and  passionate  to  her  grief. 


Art  thou  gone  so  ?     My  love,  my  lord,  my  friend 
I  must  hear  from  thee  every  day  i'  the  hour, 
For  in  a  minute  there  are  many  days — 
O  by  this  count  I  shall  be  much  in  years, 
Ere  I  again  behold  my  Romeo  ! 


•  More  rare — i.  e.  more  exquisitely  poignant. 


IMOGEN.  175 


Farewell !  I  will  omit  no  opportunity 

That  may  convey  my  greetings,  love,  to  thee. 

JULIET. 

O  !  think'st  tliou  wo  shall  ever  meet  airain  ? 


I  doubt  it  not  ;  and  all  these  woes  shall  serve 
For  sweet  discourses  in  our  time  to  come. 


O  God !  I  have  an  ill-divining  soul  ; 
Methinks  I  see  thee,  now  thou  art  below, 
As  one  dead  in  the  bottom  of  a  tomb  : 
Either  my  eye-sight  fails,  or  thou  look'st  pale. 

We  have  no  sympathy  with  the  pouting  disappointment  of  Cressida, 
which  is  just  like  that  of  a  spoilt  child  which  has  lost  its  sugar-plum, 
without  tenderness,  passion,  or  poetry  :  and,  in  short,  perfectly 
characteristic  of  that  vain,  fickle,  dissolute,  heartless  woman, — "  unstahle 
as  water." 

CRESSIDA. 

And  is  it  true  that  I  must  go  from  Troy  ? 

TROILTJS. 

A  hateful  truth, 

CRESSIDA. 

What,  and  from  Troilus  too  ? 

TEOILUS. 

From  Troy  and  Troilus. 

CRESSIDA. 

Is  it  possible  ? 


17G  I  M  O  G  E  N  . 

TROILUS. 

And  suddenly. 

CRESSIDA. 

I  must  then  to  the  Greeks  ? 

TROILUS. 

No  remedy. 


A  woeful  Cressid  'mongst  the  merry  Greeks ! 
When  shall  we  see  atrain  ? 


TROILUS. 

Hear  me,  my  love.     Be  thou  but  true  of  heait 

CRESSIDA. 

I  true  !     How  now  ?  what  wicked  deem  is  tliis  ? 


Nay,  we  must  use  expostulation  kindly, 
For  it  is  parting  from  us  ; 
I  speak  not,  be  thou  true,  as  fearing  thee ; 
For  I  will  throw  my  glove  to  Death  himself, 
That  there's  no  maculation  in  thy  heart: 
But  be  thou  true,  say  I,  to  fashion  in 
My  sequent  protestation.     Be  tliou  true, 
And  I  will  see  thee. 

CRESSIDA. 

O  heavens !  be  true  again- 
O  heavens  !  you  love  me  not. 


Die  I  a  \'illain,  then  ! 
In  this  I  do  not  call  your  faith  in  questiou, 
So  mainly  as  my  merit — 

But  be  not  tempted. 


IMOGEN.  177 


Do  you  think  I  will  ? 


In  the  eagerness  of  Imogen  to  meet  her  luisViancI  there  is  all  a 
wife's  fondness,  mixed  up  with  the  breathless  hurry  arising  from  a  sudden 
and  joyful  surprise ;  but  nothing  of  the  picturesque  eloquence,  the  ardent, 
exuberant,  Italian  imagination  of  Juliet,  who,  to  gratify  her  impatience, 
would  have  her  heralds  thoughts  ; — press  into  her  service  the  nimble- 
pinioned  doves,  and  wind-swift  Cupids, — change  the  course  of  nature, 
and  lash  the  steeds  of  Phoebus  to  the  west.  Imogen  only  thinks 
"  one  score  of  miles,  'twixt  sun  and  sun,"  slow  travelling  for  a  lover, 
and  wishes  for  a  horse  with  wings — 

O  for  a  liorse  with  wings !     Hear'st  thou,  Pisanio  ? 

lie  is  at  Milford  Haven.     Read,  and  tell  me 

How  far  'tis  thither.     If  one  of  mean  aflliirs 

May  plod  it  in  a  week,  why  may  not  I 

Glide  thither  in  a  day  ?     Then,  true  Pisanio 

(Who  long'st  like  me,  to  see  thy  lord — who  long'st — 

O  let  me  hate,  hut  not  like  me — yet  long'st. 

But  in  a  fainter  kind — O  not  like  me. 

For  mine's  beyond  beyond),  say,  and  speak  thick — 

(Love's  counsellor  should  fdl  the  bores  of  hearing 

To  the  smothering  of  the  sense) — how  far  is  it 

To  this  same  blessed  Milford  ?     And  by  the  way, 

Tell  me  how  Wales  was  made  so  happy,  as 

To  inherit  such  a  haven.     But,  first  of  all. 

How  we  may  steal  from  hence  ;  and  for  the  gap 

That  we  shall  make  in  time,  from  our  hence  going 

And  our  return,  to  excuse.     But  first,  how  get  hence  ? 

Why  should  excuse  be  born,  or  e'er  begot  ? 

We'll  talk  of  that  hereafter.     Pr'ythee  speak, 

How  many  score  of  miles  may  we  well  ride 

'Twixt  hour  and  hour  ? 


One  score,  'twixt  sun  and  sun. 

Madam,  's  cnouph  lor  you  ;  and  too  much  too. 
'S.i 


178  IMOGEN 


Why,  one  that  rode  to  ]iis  execution,  man, 
Could  never  go  so  slow  ! 

There  are  two  or  tliree  other  passages  bearing  on  the  conjugal 
tenderness  of  Lnogen,  which  must  be  noticed  for  the  extreme  intensity 
of  the  feeling,  and  the  unadorned  elegance  of  the  expression. 

1  would  thou  grew'st  unto  the  shores  o'  the  haven 
And  question'dst  every  sail :  if  he  should  write, 
And  I  not  have  it,  'twere  a  paper  lost 
As  ofler'd  mercy  is.     What  was  the  last 
That  he  spake  to  thee  ? 

riSANIO. 

'Twas,  His  queen  !  his  queen  ! 

IMOGEN. 

Tiien  wav'd  his  handkerchief  ? 

nsANio. 
And  kissed  it,  madam. 

IMOGEN. 

Senseless  linen  !  happier  therein  than  I !  — 
And  that  was  all  ? 


No,  madam  ;  for  so  long 
\s  he  could  make  me  with  this  eye  or  ear 
Dislinguish  him  from  others,  he  did  keep 
The  deck,  with  glove,  or  hat,  or  handkerchief 
Still  waving,  as  the  fits  and  ptirs  of  his  mind 
Could  best  express  how  slow  his  soul  sail'd  on 
How  swift  his  ship. 


Thou  should'st  have  made  him 
As  little  as  a  crow,  or  less,  ere  left 
To  after-eye  him. 


IMOGEN.  170 

FISANIO. 

Madam,  so  I  did. 

IMOGEN. 

I  would  have  broke  my  eye-strings ;  cracked  them,  but 

To  look  upon  him  ;  till  the  diminution 

Of  space  had  pointed  liim  sharp  as  my  needle  ; 

Nay,  followed  him,  till  he  had  melted  from 

The  smallness  of  a  gnat  to  air ;  and  then 

Have  turn'd  mine  eye,  and  wept. 

Two  little  incidents,  which  are  introduced  with  the  most  unoDtmsive 
simplicity,  convey  the  strongest  impression  of  her  tenderness  for  her 
husband,  and  with  that  perfect  unconsciousness  on  her  part,  which 
adds  to   the   effect.      Thus,  when  she  has   lost  her  bracelet  — 

Go,  bid  my  woman 
Search  for  a  jewel,  that  too  casually. 
Hath  left  my  arm.     It  was  thy  master's  :  'shrew  me, 
If  I  would  lose  it  for  a  revenue 
Of  any  king  in  Europe.     I  do  think 
T  saw 't  this  morning ;  confident  I  am 
Last  night 't  was  on  mine  arm — I  kiss'd  it. 
I  hope  it  has  not  gone  to  tell  my  lord 
Thai  I  kiss  aiiglit  hut  he 

It  has  been  well  obser^-ed,  that  our  consciousness  that  the  bracelet 
IS  really  gone  to  bear  false  witness  against  her,  adds  an  inexpressible 
touching  effect  to  the  simplicity  and  tenderness  of  the  sentiment. 

And  again,  when  she  opens  her  bosom  to  meet  the  death  to 
which  her  husband  has  doomed  her,  she  finds  his  letters  preserved 
next  her  heart. 

Wliat's  licTo ! 
The  letters  of  the  loyal  lieonatus  ? — 
Soft,  we'll  no  defence. 

The  scene  in  which  Posthumus  stakes  his  ring  on  the  virtue  o' 
his    wife,  and  gives  Tnrhimo   permission  to  tempt  her,  is  taken    from 


16U  I  M  O  G  E  N  . 

llie  story.  The  baseness  and  folly  of  such  conduct  have  been  justly 
censured  ;  but  Shakspeare,  feeling  that  Posthumus  needed  every  excuse, 
has  managed  the  quarrelling  scene  between  him  and  lachimo  with 
the  most  admirable  skill.  The  manner  in  which  his  high  spirit  is 
gradually  worked  up  by  the  taunts  of  this  Italian  fiend,  is  contrived 
with  far  more  probability,  and  much  less  coarseness,  than  in  the 
original  tale.  In  the  end  he  is  not  the  challenger,  but  the  challenged ; 
and  could  hardly  (except  on  a  moral  principle,  much  too  refined  for 
those  rude  times)  have  declined  the  wager  Avithout  compromising  his 
own  courage,  and  his  faith  in  the  honor  of  Imogen. 

lACHIMO. 

I  durst  attempt  it  ag;iinst  any  lady  in  the  world. 

POSTHUMUS. 

You  are  a  great  deal  abused  in  too  bold  a  persuasion ;  and  I  doubt  not  you  sustain 
what  you're  worthy  of,  by  your  attempt. 

ixcnuio. 
What's  that  ? 

rOSTIIUMUS. 

A  repulse  :  though  your  atlempt,  as  you  call  it,  deserve  more — a  punishment  too. 


Gentlemen,  enough  of  this.     It  came  in  too  suddenly ;  let  it  die  as  it  was  born, 
and  I  pray  you  be  belter  acquainted. 


Would  I  had  put  my  estate  and  my  neighbor's  on  the  approbation  of  what  I  have 
said ! 

FOSTIIUMUS. 

What  lady  would  you  choose  to  assail  ? 

lACIII.MO. 

Yours,  whom  in  constancy  you  think  stands  so  safe. 


IMOGEN.  181 

In  the  interview  between  Imogen  and  lachimo,  he  does  not  begin 
his  attack  on  her  virtue  by  a  direct  accusation  against  Posthumus  , 
but  by  dark  liiiits  and  half-uttered  insinuations,  such  as  lago  uses 
to  madden  Othello,  he  intimates  that  her  husband,  in  his  absence 
from  her,  lias  betrayed  her  love  and  truth,  and  forgotten  her  in  the 
arms  of  another.  All  that  Imogen  says  in  this  scene  is  comprised 
in  a  few  lines — a  brief  question,  or  a  more  brief  remark.  The 
proud  and  delicate  reserve  with  which  she  veils  the  anguish  she 
suffers,  is  inimitably  beautiful.  The  strongest  expression  of  reproach 
he  can  draw  from  her,  is  only,  "  IMy  lord,  I  fear,  has  forgot  Biitain." 
When  he  continues  in  the  same  strain,  she  exclaims  in  an  agony, 
"  Let  me  hear  no  more."  When  he  urges  her  to  revenge,  she  asks, 
with  all  the  simplicity  of  virtue,  "  How  should  I  be  revenged  ?" 
And  when  he  explains  to  her  how  she  is  to  be  avenged,  her  sudden 
burst  of  indignation,  and  her  immediate  perception  of  his  treachery, 
and  the  motive  for  it,  are  powerfully  fine :  it  is  not  only  the  anger 
of  a  woman  whose  delicacy  has  been  shocked,  but  the  spirit  of  a 
princess  insulted  in  her  court. 

Away  !  I  do  condemn  mine  ears,  that  have 
So  long  attended  thee.     If  thou  wert  lionorable, 
Thou  would'st  have  told  this  tale  for  virtue,  not 
For  such  an  end  thou  seek'st,  as  base  as  strange. 
Thou  wrong'st  a  gentleman,  who  is  as  far 
From  thy  report  as  tliou  from  honor ;  and 
Solicit'st  here  a  lady  that  disdains 
Thee  and  the  devil  alike. 

It  has  been  remarked,  that  '•  her  readiness  to  pardon  lachimo's 
false  imputation,  and  his  designs  against  herself,  is  a  good  lesson 
to  prudes,  and  may  show  that  where  there  is  a  real  attachment  to 
virtue,  there  is  no  need  of  an  outrageous  antipathy  to  vice."  * 

This  is  true;  but  can  we  fail  to  perceive  that  the  instant  and 
ready  forgiveness  of  Imogen  is  accounted  for,  and  rendered  more 
graceful  and  characteristic  by  the  very  means  which  lachimo  employs 
to   win    it?      He   pours   forth  the   most    enthusiastic   praises    of    her 

'  Characters  of  Shakspcare's  Plays. 


182  I  M  O  G  E  N  . 

husband,  professes  that  he  merely  made  this  trial  of  her  out  of  his 
exceeding  love  for  Posthumus,  and  she  is  pacified  at  once;  but,  with 
exceeding  delicacy  of  feeling,  she  is  represented  as  maintaining  her 
dignified  reserve  and  her  brevity  of  speech  to  the  end  of  the  scene.* 
We  must  also  observe  how  beautifully  the  character  of  Imogen  is 
distinguished  from  those  of  Desdemona  and  liermione.  When  she  is 
made  acquainted  with  her  husband's  cruel  suspicions,  we  see  in  her 
deportment  neither  the  meek  submission  of  the  former,  nor  the  calm 
resolute  dignity  of  the  latter.  The  first  effect  produced  on  her  by  her 
husband's  letter  is  conveyed  to  the  fancy  by  the  explanation  of  Pisanio, 
who  is  gazing  on  her  as  she  reads  : — 

What  sh  all  I  need  to  draw  my  sword  ?     The  paper 
Kas  cut  her  tliroat  already !     No,  'tis  slander, 
Whose  edge  is  sharper  than  tlie  sword  ! 

And  in  her  first  exclamation  we  trace,  besides  astonishment  and 
anguish,  and  the  acute  sense  of  the  injustice  inflicted  on  her,  a  flash 
of  indignant  spirit,  which  we  do  not  find  in  Desdemona  or  Hermione. 

False  to  his  bed ! — ^What  is  it  tu  bo  false  ? 

To  lie  in  watch  there,  and  to  think  of  him  ? 

To  weep  'twixt  clock  and  clock  ?     If  sleep  cliargc  nature, 

To  break  it  with  a  fearful  dream  of  him, 

And  cry  myself  awake  ? — that's  false  to  liis  bed, 

Is  it? 

This  is  followed  by  that  aflfecting  lamentation  over  the  falsehood 
and  injustice  of  her  husband,  in  which  she  betrays  no  atom  of  jealousy 
or  wounded  self-love,  but  observes  in  the  extremity  of  her  anguish, 
that  after  his  lapse  from  truth,  "  all  good  seeming  would  be 
discredited,"  and  she  then  resigns  herself  to  his  will  with  the  most 
entire  submission. 

In  the  original  story,  Zinevra  prevails  on  the  servant  to  spare  her, 
by  her  exclamations  and  entreaties  for  mercy  "  The  lady,  seeing  the 
poniard,  and    hearing  those  words,    exclaimed  in  terror,   '  Alas !  have 

*  Vide  act  i.  scene  7. 


IMOGEN.  183 

pity  on  me  for  the  love  of  heaven  !  do  not  become  the  shiyer  of  one 
who  never  offended  thee,  only  to  pleasure  another.  God,  who  knows 
all  things,  knows  that  I  have  never  done  that  which  could  merit 
such   a  reward  from  my  husband's  hand.'  " 

Now  let  us  turn  to  Shakspeare.     Imogen  says, — 

Coine,  fellow,  be  tiioii  honost  ; 
Do  thou  thy  master's  bidding  :  when  tiiou  seest  hiin, 
A  little  witness  my  obedience.     Look  ! 
I  draw  the  sword  myself;  take  it,  and  hit 
The  innocent  mansion  of  my  love,  my  heart. 
Fear  not;  'tis  empty  of  all  things  but  grief: 
Thy  master  is  not  there,  who  was,  indeed, 
The  riches  of  it.     Do  his  bidding  ;  strike  ! 

The  devoted  attachment  of  Pisanio  to  his  royal  mistress,  all  through 
the  piece,  is  one  of  those  side  touches  by  which  Shakspeare  knew 
how  to  give  additional  effect  to  his  characters. 

Cloten  is  odious  ;*  but  we  must  not  overlook  the  peculiar  fitness  and 
propriety  of  his  character,  in  connexion  with  that  of  Imogen.  He  is 
precisely  the  kind  of  man  who  would  be  most  intolerable  to  such  a  woman. 
He  is  a  fool, — so  is  Slender,  and  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek  :  but  the  folly 
of  Cloten  is  not  only  ridiculous,  but  hateful  ;  it  arises  not  so  much 
from  a  w^ant  of  understanding  as  a  total  want  of  heart;  it  is  the 
perversion  of  sentiment,  rather  than  the  deficiency  of  intellect  :  he  has 
occasional  gleams  of  sense,  but  never  a  touch  of  feeling.  Imogen 
describes  herself  not  only  as  "  sprightcd  with  a  fool,"  but  as  "  frighted 
and    anger'd    worse."      No    other   fool    but   Cloten — a    compound   of 

*  The  character  of  Cloten  has  been  pronounced  by  some  unnatural,  by  others 
inconsistent,  and  by  others  obsolete.  The  following  passage  occurs  in  one  of 
Miss  Seward's  letters,  vol.  iii.,  p.  210  : — "  It  is  curious  that  Shakspeare  should,  in  so 
singular  a  character  as  Cloten,  have  given  the  exact  prototype  of  a  being  whom  I 
once  knew.  The  unmeaning  frown  of  ccmtenance,  the  shuffling  ga.it,  the  burst  of 
voice,  the  bustling  insignificance,  the  fever  and  ague  fits  of  valor,  the  froward 
tetchiness,  the  unprincipled  malice,  and,  what  is  more  curious,  those  occasional  gleams 
of  good  sense  amidst  the  floating  clouds  of  folly  which  generally  darkened  and 
confused   the    man's   biain,   and   which,    in    the  character    of  Cloten,  we  are    apt  to 

impute  to  a  violation  of  unity  in  character  ;   but  in  the  some-time  Captain  C ,  I 

saw  that  the  portrait  of  Cloten  was  not  out  of  nature." 


l!^4  IMOGEN. 

(he  booby  and  the   villain — could  excite   in  such    a  mind  a.^.  Imogen's 
the   same   mixture    of  terror,  contempt,    and   abhorrence.     Tli>  stupid 
obstinate  malignity  of   Cloten,    and   the    wicked   machinations    of  the 
queen — 

A  fath&r  cruel,  and  a  step-dame  false, 
A  foolish  suitor  to  a  wedded  lady — 

justify  whatever  might  need  excuse  in  the  condu.;t  of  Imogen — as  her 
concealed  marriage  and  her  flight  from  her  father's  court — and  serve 
to  call  out  several  of  the  most  beautiful  and  striking  parts  of  her 
character:  particularly  that  decision  and  vivacity  of  temper,  w^hich 
in  her  harmonize  so  beautifully  with  exceeding  delicacy,  sweetness, 
and   submission. 

In  the  scene  with  her  detested  suitor,  there  is  at  first  a  careless 
majesty  of  disdain,  which  is  admirable. 

I  am  much  sorry,  sir, 
You  put  me  to  forget  a  lady's  manners. 
By  being  so  verbal  ;*  and  learn  now,  for  all. 
That  I,  which  know  my  heart,  do  here  pronounce. 
By  tlie  very  irutli  of  it,  I  care  not  for  you, 
And  am  so  near  the  lack  of  charity 
(T'  accuse  myself),  I  hate  you  ;  which  I  had  ratlier 
You  felt,  than  make  't  my  boast. 

But  when  he  dares  to  provoke  her,  by  reviling  the  absent  Posthumus, 
her  indignation  heightens  her  scorn,  and  her  scorn  sets  a  keener 
edge  on  lier  indignation. 


For  the  contract  you  pretend  with  that  base  wretch. 
One  bred  of  alms,  and  fostered  with  cold  dishes, 
With  scraps  o'  the  court ;  it  is  no  contract,  none. 


Profane  fellow  ! 
Wert  thou  the  son  of  Jupiter,  and  no  more, 

*  i   e.  full  of  words. 


IMOGEN.  185 

But  what  thou  art,  besides,  thou  vvert  too  base 
To  be  his  groom  ;  thou  wert  dignified  enough, 
Even  to  the  point  of  envy,  if  't  were  made 
Comparative  for  your  virtues,  to  be  styl'd 
The  under  hangman  of  his  kingdom  ;  and  hated 
For  being  preferr'd  so  well. 

He  never  can  meet  more  mischance  than  come 
To  be  but  nam'd  of  thee.     His  meanest  (rnrmcnt 
That  ever  hath  but  clipp'd  his  body,  is  dearer 
In  my  respect,  than  all  the  hairs  above  thee. 
Were  they  all  made  such  men. 

One  thing  more  must  be  particularly  remarked,  because  it  serves 
to  individualize  the  character,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the 
poem.  We  are  constantly  sensible  that  Imogen,  besides  being  a 
tender  and  devoted  woman,  is  a  princess  and  a  beauty,  at  the  same 
time  that  she  is  ever  superior  to  her  position  and  her  external  charms. 
There  is,  for  instance,  a  certain  airy  majesty  of  deportment — a  spirit 
of  accustomed  command  breaking  out  every  now  and  then — the  dignity, 
without  the  assumption  of  rank  and  royal  birth,  which  is  apparent 
in  the  scene  with  Cloten  and  elsewhere  ;  and  we  have  not  only  a 
general  impression  that  Imogen,  like  other  heroines,  is  beautiful,  but 
the  peculiar  style  and  character  of  her  beauty  is  placed  before  us  : 
we  have  an  image  of  the  most  luxuriant  loveliness,  combined  with 
exceeding  delicacy,  and  even  fragility  of  person  :  of  the  most  refined 
elegance,  and  the  most  exquisite  modesty,  set  forth  in  one  or  two 
passages  of  description  ;  as  when  lachimo  is  contemplating  her 
asleep  : — 

Cytherea, 
How  bravely  thou  bccom'st  thy  bed !  fresh  lily, 
And  whiter  than  the  sheets. 

'Tis  her  breathing  that 

Perfumes  the  chamber  thus.    The  flame  o'  the  taper 

Bows  toward  her  ;  and  would  underpcep  her  lids 

To  see  the  enclos'd  lights,  now  canopied 

Under  those  windows,  white  and  azure,  lac'd 

With  blue  of  heaven's  own  tinct ! 
24 


15G  IMOGEN. 

The  preservation  of  her  feminine  character  under  her  masculine 
attire ;  her  delicacy,  her  modesty,  and  her  timidity,  are  manao-ed 
Nvith  the  same  perfect  consistency  and  unconscious  grace  as  in  Viola. 
And  we  must  not  forget  that  her  "  neat  cookery,"  which  is  so  prettily 
eulogised  by  Guiderius  : — 

He  cuts  out  roots  in  characters, 

And  sauc'd  our  broths,  as  Juno  had  been  sick, 

And  he  her  dieter, 

formed  part  of  the  education  of  a  princess  in  those  remote  times. 

Few  reflections  of  a  general  nature  are  put  into  the  mouth  of 
Imogen ;  and  what  she  says  is  more  remarkable  for  sense,  tmth,  and 
tender  feeling,  than  for  wit,  or  wisdom,  or  power  of  imagination. 
The  following  little  touch  of  poetry  reminds  us  of  Juliet: — 

Ere  I  could 
Give  him  that  parting  kiss,  which  I  had  set 
Between  two  charming  words,  comes  in  my  father ; 
And,  hke  the  t3Tannous  breathing  of  the  north 
Shakes  all  our  buds  from  growing. 

Her  exclamation  on  opening  her  husband's  letter,  reminds  us  of 
the  profoimd  and  thoughtful  tenderness  of  Helen  : — 

O  learned  indeed  were  that  astronomer 
That  knew  the  stars,  as  I  his  characters  ! 
He'd  lay  the  future  open. 

The  following  are  more  in  the  manner  of  Isabel  :— 

Most  miserable 
»  Is  the  desire  that's  glorious  :  bless'd  be  those, 

How  mean  soe'er,  that  have  their  honest  wills, 
That  seasons  comfort. 

Against  self-slaughter 
There  is  a  prohibition  so  divine 
That  cravens  my  weak  hand. 


IMOGEN.  IST 

Thus  may  poor  fools 

Believe  fiilse  teachers  ;  though  those  that  are  betray'd 

Do  feel  the  reason  sharply,  yet  the  traitor 

Stands  in  worse  case  of  woe, 

Arc  we  not  brothers  ? 

So  man  and  man  should  be  ; 
But  clay  and  clay  diflers  in  c!ii:^nity, 
Whose  dust  is  both  alilio. 

Will  poor  folks  lie 
That  have  afflictions  on  them,  knowing  'tis 
A  punishment  or  trial  ?     Yes  :  no  wonder, 
When  rich  ones  scarce  tell  true  :  to  lapse  in  fullness 
Is  sorer  than  to  lie  for  need ;  and  falsehood 
Is  worse  in  kings  than  beggars. 

The  sentence  ^vhich  follows,  and  which  I  believe  has  become 
proverbial,  has  much  of  the  manner  of  Portia,  both  in  the  thought 
and  the  expression  : — 

Hath  Britain  all  the  sun  that  shines  ?     Day,  night, 
Are  they  not  but  in  Britain  ?     I'  the  world's  volume 
Our  Britain  seems  as  of  it,  but  not  in  it ; 
In  a  great  pool,  a  swan's  nest ;  pr'ythee,  think 
There's  livers  out  of  Britain. 


The  catastrophe  of  this  play  has  been  much  admired  for  the 
peculiar  skill  with  which  all  the  various  threads  of  interest  are 
gathered  together  at  last,  and  entwined  with  the  destiny  of  Imogen. 
It  may  be  added,  that  one  of  the  chief  beauties  is  the  manner  in 
which  the  character  of  Imogen  is  not  only  preserved,  but  rises  upon 
us  to  the  conclusion  with  added  grace  :  her  instantaneous  forgiveness 
of  her  husband  before  he  even  asks  it,  when  she  flings  herself  at 
once  into  his  arms — 

Why  did  you  throw  your  v^'cdded  lady  from  you  ? 

and  her  magnanimous  reply  to   her  lather,  when  he  tells  her,  that    by 
the  discovery  of  her  two  brothers  she  has  lost  a  kingdom — 


les  IMOGEN. 

No — I  have  gain'd  two  worlds  by  it — 

clolhino"    a    noble   sentiment    in    a    noble    image,  give    the   fmisliin^j 
touches  of  excellence  to  this  most  enchanting  portrait. 

On  the  whole,  Imogen  is  a  lovely  compound  of  goodness,  truth, 
and  affection,  with  just  so  much  of  passion  and  intellect  and  poetry, 
as  serve  to  lend  to  the  picture  that  power  and  glowing  richness  of 
effect  which  it  would  otherwise  have  wanted ;  and  of  her  it  might 
be  said,  if  we  could  condescend  to  quote  from  any  other  poet  with 
Shakspeare  open  before  us,  that  "  her  person  was  a  paradise,  and  her 
soul  the  cherub  to  guard  it."* 

*  Diyden. 


CORDELIA. 


There  is  in  the  beauty  of  Cordelia's  character  an  effect  too  sacred 
for   words,   and    almost   too    deep    for   tears ;    within   her    heart  is    a 
fathomless   well    of  purest    affection,  but    its    waters    sleep    in  silence 
and    obscurity,— never   failing   in   their   depth,   ami   never  overflowing 
in  their   fulness.     Everything    in  her   seems  to   lie  beyond  our  view, 
and    affects    us   in   a   manner    which   we   feel  rather    than   perceive. 
The    character    appears   to   have   no   surface,   no   salient   points   upon 
which     the     fancy     can      readily     seize;      there     is     little     external 
development  of  intellect,  less  of  passion,  and  still  less  of   imagination. 
It   is    completely  made   out   in   the   course   of  a  few   scenes,   and   we 
are   surprised   to   find    that  in   those  few   scenes    there   is   matter   for 
a   life   of  reflection,    and  materials   enough    for   twenty   heroines.      If 
Lear  be   the   grandest   of  Shakspeare's   tragedies,  Cordelia   in   herself, 
as  a  human    being,    governed    by   the    purest    and    holiest    impulses 
and    motives,   the    most    refined    from    all    dross    of    selfishness    and 
passion,  approaches    near   to  perfection;    and    in   her    adaptation,    as 
a    dramatic    personage,   to   a   determinate    plan    of    action,   may    be 
pronounced    altogether     perfect.        The    character,    to     speak    of     it 
critically     as     a     poetical      conception,     is      not,      however,     to    be 
comprehended  at  once,  or   easily;  and  in   the   same  manner  Cordelia, 
as    a   woman,   is    one   whom   we   must    have    loved   bclore   we    could 
have  known   her,  and   known  her   long  before   we  could  have  known 

her   ti-uly. 

Most  people,  I  believe,  have  heard  the  story  of  the  young 
Germon  artist  Muller,  who,  while  employed  in  copying  and 
eno-rv.incr   Raffaelle's    Madonna   del   Sisto,   was   so  penetrated   by    its 


19U  (J  O  R  D  E  L  I  A  . 

celestial  beauty,  so  distrusted  his  own  power  to  do  justice  to  it, 
that  between  admiration  and  despair  he  fell  into  a  sadness ; 
thence  through  the  usual  gradations,  into  a  melancholy,  thence  into 
madness;  and  died  just  as  he  had  put  the  fmishing  stroke  to  his 
own  matchless  work,  which  had  occupied  him  for  eight  years. 
With  some  slight  tinge  of  this  concentrated  kind  of  enthusiasm  I 
have  learned  to  contemplate  the  character  of  Cordelia ;  I  have 
looked  into  it  till  the  revelation  of  its  hidden  beauty,  and  an 
intense  feeling  of  the  wonderful  genius  which  created  it,  have  filled 
me  at  once  with  delight  and  despair.  Like  poor  Miiller,  but  with 
more  reason,  I  do  despair  of  ever  conveying,  through  a  different 
and  inferior  medium,  the  impression  made  on  ray  own  mind,  to 
the   mind  of  another. 

Schlegel,  the  most  eloquent  of  critics,  concludes  his  remarks  on 
King  Lear  with  these  words :  "  Of  the  heavenly  beauty  of  soul 
of  Cordelia,  I  will  not  venture  to  speak. "  Now  if  I  attempt 
what  Schlegel  and  others  have  left  undone,  it  is  because  J  feel 
that  this  general  acknowledgment  of  her  excellence  can  neither 
satisfy  those  who  have  studied  the  character,  nor  convey  a  just 
conception  of  it  to  the  mere  reader.  Amid  the  awful,  the 
overpowering  interest  of  the  story,  amid  the  terrible  convulsions  of 
passion  and  suffering,  and  pictures  of  moral  and  physical  wretchedness 
which  harrow  up  the  soul,  the  tender  influence  of  Cordelia,  like 
th[\t  of  a  celestial  visitant,  is  felt  and  acknowledged  without  being 
quite  understood.  Like  a  soft  star  that  shines  for  a  moment  from 
behind  a  stormy  cloud,  and  the  next  is  swallowed  up  in  tempest 
and  darkness,  the  impression  it  leaves  is  beautiful  and  deep, — but 
vague.  Speak  of  Cordelia  to  a  critic  or  to  a  general  reader,  all 
agree  in  the  beauty  of  the  portrait,  for  all  must  feel  it;  but 
when  we  come  to  details,  I  have  heard  more  various  and  opposite 
opinions  relative  to  her  than  any  otlier  of  Shakspearo's  characters — 
a  proof  of  what  I  have  advanced  in  the  first  instance,  that  from 
the  simplicity  with  which  the  character  is  dramatically  treated,  and 
the  small  space  it  occupies,  few  arc  aware  of  its  internal  p-ower, 
or   its  wonderful   depth   of  purpose. 

It  appears  to  me  that  the  whoie  character  rests  upon  tlie  two 
sublimest    principles    of    human    action,   the    love   of   truth    and   the 


C  O  II  1)  E  i.  1  A  .  iOl 

sense  of  duly ;  but  these.  Avhen  they  stand  alone  (as  in  the 
Antigone),  are  apt  to  strike  us  as  severe  and  cold.  Shakspeare 
has,  therefore,  ^vrcalhed  them  round  Avilh  the  dearest  attributes  of 
our  feminine  nature,  the  power  of  feeling  and  inspiring  affection. 
The  first  part  of  the  play  shows  us  how  Cordelia  is  loved,  the 
second  part  how  she  can  love.  To  her  father  she  is  the  object 
of  a  secret  preference ;  his  agony  at  her  supposed  unkindness,  draws 
from  him  the  confession,  that  he  had  loved  her  most,  and  "  thought 
to  set  his  rest  on  her  kind  nursery."  Till  then  she  had  been 
"  his  best  object,  the  argument  of  his  praise,  balm  of  his  age, 
most  best,  most  dearest ! "  The  faithful  and  worthy  Kent  is 
ready  to  brave  death  and  exile  in  her  defence :  and  afterwards  a 
farther  impression  of  her  benign  sweetness  is  conveyed  in  a  simple 
and  beautiful  manner,  when  we  are  told  that  "  since  the  lady 
Cordelia  went  to  France,  her  father's  poor  fool  had  much  pined 
away. "  We  have  her  sensibility  "  when  patience  and  sorrow 
strove  which  should  express  her  goodliest : "  and  all  her  filial 
tenderness  when  she  commits  her  poor  father  to  the  care  of  a 
physician,  when  she  hangs  over  him  as  he  is  sleeping,  and 
kisses    him    as    she    contemplates  the  wreck    of    grief    and  majestv 


O  my  dear  father!  restoration  hang 

Its  medicine  on  my  lips  :  and  let  this  kiss 

Repair  those  violent  harms  that  my  two  sisters 

Have  in  thy  reverence  made  ! 

Had  you  not  been  their  father,  these  white  flakes 

Had  challenged  pity  of  them !     Was  this  a  face 

To  be  exposed  against  the  warring  winds, 

To  stand  against  the  deep  dread-bolted  thunder, 

In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke 

Of  quick  cross  lightning?  to  watch  (poor  perdu!) 

With  thin  helm  ?  mine  enemy's  dog, 

Though  ho  had  bit  me,  should  have  stood  that  night 

Against  my  fire. 


Her  mild  magnanimity  shines  out  in  her  farewell  to  her  sisters,  of 
whose  real  character  she  is  perfectly  aware : 


192  CORDELIA. 

Yc  jewels  of  our  father !  with  washed  eyes 

Cordelia  leaves  you  !     I  know  ye  what  ye  are. 

And  like  a  sister,  am  most  loath  to  call 

Your  faults  as  they  are  nam'd.     Use  well  our  father, 

To  your  professed  bosoms  I  commit  him 

But  yet,  alas  !  stood  I  within  his  grace. 

I  would  commend  him  to  a  better  place ; 

So  farewell  to  you  both. 

GOXERIL. 

Prescribe  not  us  our  duties ! 

The  modest  pride  wlih  ^vhich  she  replies  to  the  Duke  of  Burgundy 
is  admirable;  this  whole  passage  is  too  illustrative  of  the  peculiar 
character  of  Cordelia,  as  well  as  too  exquisite  to  be  mutilated. 

I  yet  beseech  your  majesty 
(If,  for  I  want  that  glib  and  oily  heart, 
To  speak  and  purpose  not,  since  what  I  well  intend 
I  'II  do  't  before  I  speak),  that  you  make  known. 
It  is  no  vicious  blot,  murder,  or  foulness. 
No  unchaste  action,  or  dishonored  step 
That  hath  deprived  me  of  your  grace  and  favor; 
But  even  for  want  of  that,  for  which  I  am  richer ; 
A  still  soliciting  eye,  and  such  a  tongue 
I  am  glad  I  have  not,  tho'  not  to  have  it 
Hath  lost  me  in  vour  liking. 


Better  thou 
Hadst  not  been  born,  than  not  to  have  pleased  me  better. 


Is  it  but  this  ?  a  tardiness  of  nature, 

That  often  leaves  the  history  unspoke 

Which  it  intends  to  do  ? — My  lord  of  Burgundy, 

Wliat  say  you  to  the  lady  ?  love  is  not  love 

When  it  is  mingled  with  respects  tliat  stand 

Aloof  from  the  entire  point.     Will  you  have  her  ? 

She  is  herself  a  dowry. 


CORDELIA.  193 

EUKGUNDY. 

Royal  Lear, 
Give  but  that  portion  whicla  yourself  proposed, 
And  here  I  take  Cordelia  by  the  hand 
Duchess  of  Burgundy. 

LEAR. 

Nothing :  I  have  sworn ;  I  am  firm. 

BURGUNDY. 

I  am  sorry,  then,  you  have  so  lost  a  father 
That  you  must  lose  a  husband. 

CORDELIA. 

Peace  be  with  Burgundy ! 
Since  that  respects  of  fortune  are  his  love, 
I  shall  not  be  his  wife. 


Fairest  Cordelia !  tliou  art  more  rich,  being  poor. 
Most  choice,  forsaken,  and  most  lov'd,  despised ! 
Thee  and  thy  virtues  here  I  seize  upon. 

She  takes  up  arms,  "  not  for  ambition,  but  a  dear  father's  right." 
In  her  speech  after  her  defeat,  we  have  a  calm  fortitude  and  elevation 
of  soul,  arising  from  the  consciousness  of  duty,  and  lifting  her  above 
all  consideration  of  self.     She  observes, — 

We  are  not  the  first 
Who  with  best  meaning  have  incurred  the  worst ! 

She  thinks  and  fears  only  for  her  father. 

For  thee,  oppressed  king,  am  I  cast  down; 
Myself  would  else  out-frown  false  fortune's  frown. 

To  complete  the  picture,  her  very  voice  is  characteristic,  "  ever 
soft,   gentle,    and    low ;    an   excellent   thing   in    woman." 

25 


194  CORDELIA. 

But  it  will  be  said  that  the  qualities  here  exemplified — as 
sensibility,  gentleness,  magnanimity,  fortitude,  generous  affection — 
are  qualities  which  belong,  in  their  perfection,  to  others  of 
Shakspeare's  characters — to  Imogen  for  instance,  who  unites  them 
all ;  and  yet  Imogen  and  Cordelia  are  wholly  unlike  each  other. 
Even  though  we  should  reverse  their  situations,  and  give  to  Imogen 
the  fdial  devotion  of  Cordelia,  and  to  Cordelia,  the  conjugal 
virtues  of  Imogen,  still  they  would  remain  perfectly  distinct  as 
women.  What  is  it,  then,  which  lends  to  Cordelia  that  peculiar  and 
individual  truth  of  character,  which  distinguishes  her  from  every 
other    human   being  ? 

It  is  a  natural  reserve,  a  tardiness  of  disposition,  "  which  often 
leaves  the  history  unspoke  which  it  intends  to  do ; "  a  subdued 
quietness  of  deportment  and  expression,  a  veiled  shyness  thrown 
over  all  her  emotions,  her  language  and  her  manner;  making  the 
outward  demonstration  invariably  fall  short  of  what  w^e  know  to  be 
the  feeling  within.  Not  only  is  the  portrait  singularly  beautiful 
and  interesting  in  itself,  but  the  conduct  of  Cordelia,  and  the  part 
which  she  bears  in  the  beginning  of  the  story,  is  rendered  consistent 
and  natural  by  the  wonderful  truth  and  delicacy  with  which  this 
peculiar   disposition   is   sustained   throughout   the   pla}'- 

In  early  youth,  and  more  particularly,  if  we  are  gifted  with  a 
lively  imagination,  such  a  character  as  that  of  Cordelia  is  calculated 
above  every  other  to  impress  and  captivate  us.  Anything  like 
mystery,  anything  withheld  or  withdrawn  from  our  notice,  seizes  on 
our  fancy  by  awakening  our  curiosity.  Then  we  are  won  more 
by  what  we  half  perceive  and  half  create,  than  by  what  is  openly 
expressed  and  freidy  bestowed.  But  this  feeling  is  a  part  of  our 
vouno-  life:  when  time  and  vears  have  chilled  us,  when  we  can 
no  longer  afford  to  send  our  souls  abroad,  nor  from  our  own 
superfluity  of  life  and  sensibility  spare  the  materials  out  of  wliich 
we  build  a  shrine  for  our  idol — then  do  we  seek,  vce  ask,  V\'e  thirst 
for  that  warmth  of  frank,  confiding  tenderness,  which  revives  in  us 
the  withered  affections  and  feelings,  buried  but  not  dead.  Then 
the  excess  of  love  is  welcomed,  not  repelled :  it  is  gracious  to  us 
as  the  sun  and  dew  to  the  seared  and  riven  trunk,  with  its  few 
green    leaves.       Lear  is   old — "  fourscore    and    upward " — but   we   see 


CORD  E  L  I  A  .  195 

what  he  has  been  in  former  days .  tlie  ardent  passions  of  youth 
have  turned  to  rashness  and  ^vilfulness :  he  is  long  passed  that 
age  when  we  are  more  blessed  in  what  we  bestow  than  in  what 
we  receive.  When  he  says  to  his  daughters,  "  I  gave  ye  all  ! " 
we  feel  that  he  requires  all  in  return,  with  a  jealous,  restless, 
exacting  affection  which  defeats  its  own  wishes.  How  many  such 
are  there  in  the  world  !  How  many  to  sympathize  with  the  fiery, 
fond  old  man,  when  -he  shrinks  as  if  petrified  from  Cordelia's 
quiet   calm  reply  ! 


Now  our  joy, 
Although  the  last  not  least — 
What  can  you  say  to  draw 
A  third  more  opulent  than  your  sisters'  ?     Speak  I 

CORDELIA. 

Nothing,  my  lord. 

LEAR. 

Nothing ! 


Nothing. 

LEAR. 

Nothing  can  come  of  nothing :  speak  again  I 

CORDELIA. 

Unhappy  that  I  am  !     I  cannot  heave 

My  heart  into  my  mouth :  I  love  your  majesty 

According  to  my  bond  •  nor  more,  nor  less. 

Now  this  is  perfectly  natural.  Cordelia  has  penetrated  the  vile 
characters  of  her  sisters.  Is  it  not  obvious,  that,  in  proportion  as 
her  OAvn  mind  is  pure  and  guileless,  she  must  be  disgusted  with 
their    gross    hypocrisy   and    exaggeration,  their    empty    protestations, 


li)-)  CORDELIA. 

their  '•  plaited  cunning ; "  and  would  retire  from  all  competition 
with  what  she  so  disdains  and  abhors, — even  into  the  opposite 
extreme  1     In  such    a   case,   as   she  says   herself — 


What  should  Cordelia  do  ? — love  and  be  silent. 


For   the   very   expressions   of  Lear- 


What  can  you  say  to  draw 
A  third  more  opulent  than  your  sisters'  ? 


are  enough  to  strike  dumb  for  ever  a  generous,  delicate,  but 
shy  disposition  such  as  is  Cordelia's,  by  holding  out  a  bribe  for 
professions. 

If  Cordelia  were  not  thus  portrayed,  this  deliberate  coolness  \vould 
strike  us  as  verging  on  harshness  or  obstinacy;  but  it  is  beautifully 
represented  as  a  certain  modification  of  character,  the  necessary 
r'j..iilt  of  feelings  habitually,  if  not  naturally  repressed  :  and  through 
the  whole  play  we  trace  the  same  peculiar  and  individual 
disposition — the  same  absence  of  all  display — the  same  sobriety 
of  speech  veiling  the  most  profound  affections — the  same  quiet 
steadiness  of  purpose — the  same  shrinking  from  all  exhibition  of 
emotion. 

"  Tons  les  sentimens  naturels  ont  leur  pudeur, "  w'as  a  viva  voce 
observation  of  Madame  de  Stael,  when  disgusted  by  the  sentimental 
affectation  of  her  imitators.  This  "  pudeur, "  carried  to  an 
excess,  appears  to  me  the  peculiar  characteristic  of  Cordelia. 
Thus,  in  the  description  of  her  deportment  when  she  receives 
the  letter  of  the  Earl  of  Kent,  informing  her  of  the  cruelty  of 
her  sisters  and  the  wretched  condition  of  Lear,  we  seem  to  have 
her  before  us : — 


KENT. 

Did  your  letters  pierce  the  queen   to  any  demonstration  of  grief? 


C  O  p.  D  E  L  I  A  .  107 


GKNTLEMAN. 


Ay   sir,  she  took  them,  and  read  them  in  my  presence ; 
And  now  and  then  an  ample  tear  stole  down 
Her  delicate  cheek.     It  seemed  she  was  a  queen 
Over  her  passion ;  who,  most  rebel-like, 
Sought  to  be  king  over  her. 

KENT. 

O  then  it  moved  her ! 

GENTLEMAN. 

Not  to  a  rage. 
Faith,  once  or  twice  she  heaved  the  name  of  father 
Pantingly  forth,  as  if  it  pressed  her  heart, 
Cried,  Sisters !  sisters !  Shame  of  ladies  !   Sisters ! 
What,  i'  the  storm  1  i'  the  night  1 
Let  pily  not  be  believed  !     Then  she  shook 
The  holy  water  from  her  heavenly  eyes ; 

Then  away  she  started, 
To  deal  with  grief  alone. 

Here  the  last  line — the  image  brought  before  us  of  Cordelia 
starting  away  i'rom  observation  "  to  deal  with  grief  alone,"  is  a.s 
exquisitely  beautiful   as   it  is   characteristic. 

But  all  the  passages  hitherto  quoted  must  yield  in  beauty  and 
power  to  that  scene,  in  which  her  poor  father  recognizes  her, 
and  in  the  intervals  of  distraction  asks  forgiveness  of  his  wronged 
child.  The  subdued  pathos  and  simplicity  of  Cordelia's  character, 
her  quiet  but  intense  feeling,  the  misery  and  humiliation  of  the 
bewildered  old  man,  are  brought  before  us  in  so  few  words,  and  at 
the  same  time  sustained  with  such  a  deep  intuitive  knowledge  of  the 
innermost  workings  of  the  human  heart,  that  as  there  is  nothing 
surpassing  this  scene  in  Shakspeare  himself,  so  there  is  nothing  that 
can  be  compared  to  it  in  any  other  writer. 

CORDELIA. 

How  does  my  royal  lord  ?    How  fares  your  majesty  ? 


19S  CORDELIA 


You  do  me  wrong  to  take  mc  out  of  the  grave. 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss ;  but  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  that  mine  own  tears 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 

CORDELIA. 

Sir,  do  you  know  mo  ? 

LEAK. 

\ou  are  a  spirit,  I  know:  when  did  j-ou  die? 

CORDELIA. 

t>till.  still  far  wide  ! 

PHYSICIAN. 

He  's  scarce  awake  :  let  him  alone  awhile. 

LEAR. 

Where  have  I  been  ?     Where  am  I  ?     Fair  daylight ! 
I  am  mightily  abused.     I  should  even  die  with  pity 
To  see  another  thus.     I  know  not  what  to  say. 
I  will  not  swear  these  are  my  hands  :  Let's  see ; 
I  feel  this  pin  prick.     Would  I  were  assured 
Of  my  condition. 


O  look  upon  me,  sir, 
And  hold  your  hands  in  benediction  o'er  me : — 
No,  sir,  you  must  not  kneel. 


Pray,  do  not  mock  me : 
I  am  a  very  foolish,  fond  old  man, 
Fourscore  and  upwards  ;  and  to  deal  plainly  with  yon. 
I  fear  I  am  not  in  my  perfect  mind. 
Methinks  I  should  know  you,  and  know  this  man, 
Yet  I  am  doubtful :  for  I  am  mainly  ignorant 


CORDELIA.  190 

Wliat  place  this  is;  and  all  the  skill  I  have 
Remembers  not  these  garments ;  nor  I  know  not 
Where  I  did  lodge  last  night.     Do  not  lantrh  at  me  ! 
For  as  I  am  a  man,  I  think  this  lady 
To  bo  my  cliild  Cordelia. 

CORDELIA. 

And  so  I  am,  I  am. 

LEAK. 

Be  j'our  tears  wet  ?     Yes,  faith.     I  pray  you  weep  not. 
If  you  have  poison  for  me  I  will  drink  it. 
I  know  you  do  not  love  me  ;  for  your  sisters 
Have,  as  I  do  remember,  done  me  wrong : 
You  have  some  cause,  they  have  not. 

CORDELIA. 

No  cause,  no  cause  ! 

As  we  do  not  estimate  Cordelia's  affection  for  her  father  by  the 
coldness  of  lier  language,  so  neither  should  we  measure  her 
indignation  against  her  sisters  by  the  mildness  of  her  expressions. 
What,  in  fact,  can  be  more  eloquently  significant,  and  at  the  same 
tune  more  characteristic  of  Cordelia  than  the  single  line  when 
she  and    her  father    are    conveyed    to    their    prison : — 

Shall  wc  not  see  these  daughlers  and  these  sisters  ' 

The  irony  here  is  so  bitter  and  intense,  and  at  the  same  time 
so  quiet,  so  feminine,  so  dignified  in  the  expression,  that  who 
but  Cordelia  would  have  uttered  it  in  the  same  manner,  or 
would  have  condensed  such  ample  meaning  into  so  few  and  simple 
words  ? 

We  lose  sight  of  Cordelia  during  the  whole  of  the  second  and 
third,  and  great  part  of  the  fourth  act ;  but  towards  the  conclusion 
she  reappears.  Just  as  our  sense  of  human  misery  and  wickedness, 
being  carried  to  its  extreme  height,  becomes  nearly  intolerable,  "  like 
an    engine     wrenching  our  frames  of  n-atnre  froni    its   fixed    place," 


200  (J  D  il  J)  E  J.  1  A  . 

then,  like  a  redeeming  angel,  she  descends  to  mingle  in  ilie  S'vne, 
"loosening  the  springs  of  pity  in  our  eyes,"  and  relie\ing  the 
impressions  of  pain  and  terror  by  those  of  aihiiiration  and  a  tender 
pleasure.  For  the  catastrophe,  it  is  indeed  terrible !  wondrous 
terrible !  When  Lear  enters  with  Cordelia  dead  in  his  arms, 
compassion  and  awe  so  seize  on  all  our  faculties,  that  we  are  left 
only  to  silence  and  to  tears.  But  if  I  might  judge  from  my  own 
sensations,  the  catastrophe  of  Lear  is  not  so  overwhelming  as  the 
catastrophe  of  Othello.  We  do  not  turn  away  with  the  same 
feeling  of  absolute  unmitigated  despair.  Cordelia  is  a  saint  ready 
prepared  for  heaven — our  earth  is  not  good  enough  for  her :  and 
Lear ! — 0  who,  after  suffering  and  tortures  such  as  his,  would  wish 
to  see  his  life  prolonged  ?  What !  replace  a  sceptre  in  that 
shaking  hand? — a  crown  upon  that  old  grey  head,  on  which  the 
tempest  had  poured  in  its  wrath  ? — on  which  the  deep  dread-bolted 
thunders  and  the  winged  lightnings  had  spent  their  fury?  0  never, 
never  ! 

Let  him  pass  !  he  hates  liim 

That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  rough  world 

Stretch  him  out  longer. 

In  the  story  of  King  Lear  and  his  three  daughters,  as  it  is 
related  in  the  "delectable  and  mellifluous"  romance  of  Perceforest, 
and  in  the  Chronicle  of  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  the  conclusion  is 
fortunate.  Cordelia  defeats  her  sisters,  and  replaces  her  father  on 
his  throne.  Spenser,  in  his  version  of  the  story,  has  followed 
these  authorities.  Shakspearc  has  preferred  the  catastrophe  of  the 
old  ballad,  founded  apparently  on  some  lost  tradition.  I  suppose 
it  is  by  way  of  amending  his  errors,  and  bringing  back  this  daring 
innovator  to  sober  history,  that  it  has  been  thought  fit  to  alter 
the  play  of  Lear  for  the  stage,  as  they  have  altered  Romeo  and 
Juliet :  they  have  converted  the  seraph-like  Cordelia  into  a  puling 
love  heroine,  and  sent  her  off  victorious  at  the  end  of  the  play — 
exit  with  drums,  and  colors  flying — to  be  married  to  Edgar.  Now 
anything  more  absurd,  more  discordant  with  all  our  previous 
impressions,    and    with    the    characters    as    untblded  to    us,   can    hardly 


CORDELIA.  201 

De  imagined.  "  I  cannot  conceive, "  says  Schlegel,  "  what  ideas 
of  art  and  dramatic  connection  those  persons  have,  who  suppose 
we  can  at  pleasure  tack  a  double  conclusion  to  a  tragedy — a 
melancholy  one  for  hard-hearted  spectators,  and  a  merry  one  to 
those  of  softer  mould.  "  The  fierce  manners  depicted  in  this  play, 
the  extremes  of  virtue  and  vice  in  the  persons,  belong  to  the 
remote  period  of  the  story.  *  There  is  no  attempt  at  character  in 
the  old  narratives:  Regan  and  Goneril  are  monsters  of  ingratitude, 
and  Cordelia  merely  distinguished  by  her  fihal  piety ;  whereas,  in 
Shakspeare,  this  filial  piety  is  an  affection  quite  distinct  from  the 
qualities  wdiich  serve  to  individualize  the  human  being ;  we  have 
a  perception  of  innate  character  apart  from  all  accidental 
circumstance :  we  see  that  if  Cordelia  had  never  known  her  father, 
had  never  been  rejected  from  his  love,  had  never  been  a  born 
princess  or  a  crowned  queen,  she  would  not  have  been  less 
Cordelia;  less  distinctly  herself;  that  is,  a  woman  of  a  steady  mind, 
of  calm  but  deep  affections,  of  inflexible  truth,  of  few  words,  and 
of  reserved   deportment. 

As  to  Regan  and  Goneril — "  tigers  not  daughters " — we  might 
wish  to  regard  them  as  mere  hateful  chimeras,  impossible  as  they 
are  detestable;  but  unfortunately  there  was  once  a  Tullia.  I  know 
not  where  to  look  for  the  prototype  of  Cordelia :  there  was  a 
Julia  Alpinula,  the  young  priestess  of  Aventicum,f  who,  unable  to 
save  her  father's  life  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  own,  died  with  him — 
"  infclix  patris,  infclix  proles,'^ — but  this  is  all  we  know  of  her 
There  was  the  Roman  daughter  too.  I  remember  seeing  at 
Genoa,  Guido's  "  Pieta  Romana,"  in  which  the  expression  of  the 
female  bending  over  the  aged  parent,  who  feeds  from  her  bosom, 
is  perfect, — but  it  is  not  a  Cordelia :  only  Raffaele  could  have 
painted    Cordelia. 

But  the  character  which  at  once  suggests  itself  in  comparison 
with    Cordelia,   as    the    heroine    of    filial    tenderness    and    piety,   is 


*  King  Lear  may  be  supposed  to  have  lived  about  one  thousand  ycai's  before  tho 
Christian  era,  being  the  fourth  or  fifth  in  descent  from  King  Brut,  the  great-grandson 
of  ^neas,  and  the  fabulous  founder  of  the  kingdom  of  Britain. 

t  She  is  commemorated  by  Lord  Byron.     Vide  Childe  Harold,  Canto  iii 

26 


202  CORDELIA. 

certainly  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles.  As  poetical  conceptions,  the) 
rest  on  the  same  basis  :  they  are  both  pure  abstractions  of  truth, 
piety,  and  natural  affection ;  and  in  both,  love,  as  a  passion,  is 
kept  entirely  out  of  sight:  for  though  the  womanly  character  is 
sustained,  by  making  them  the  objects  of  devoted  attachment,  yet 
to  have  portrayed  them  as  influenced  by  passion,  would  have 
destroyed  that  unity  of  purpose  and  feeling  which  is  one  source 
of  power;  and,  besides,  have  disturbed  that  serene  purity  and 
grandeur  of  soul,  which  equally  distinguishes  both  heroines.  The 
spirit,  however,  in  which  the  two  characters  are  conceived, 
is  as  different  as  possible ;  and  we  must  not  fail  to  remark, 
that  Antigone,  who  plays  a  principal  part  in  two  fine  tragedies, 
and  is  distinctly  and  completely  made  out,  is  considered  as  a 
masterpiece,  the  very  triumph  of  the  ancient  classical  drama ; 
whereas,  there  are  many  among  Shakspeare's  characters  which 
are  equal  to  Cordelia  as  dramatic  conceptions,  and  superior  to 
her  in  finishing  of  outline,  as  well  as  in  the  richness  of  the  poetical 
coloring. 

When  (Edipus,  pursued  by  the  vengeance  of  the  gods,  deprived 
of  sight  by  his  own  mad  -  act,  and  driven  from  Thebes  by  his 
subjects  and  his  sons,  wanders  forth,  abject  and  forlorn,  he  i? 
supported  by  his  daughter  Antigone ;  who  leads  him  from  city  to 
city,  begs  for  him,  and  pleads  fi)r  him  against  the  harsh,  rude 
men,  who,  struck  more  by  his  guilt  than  his  misery,  would  drive 
him  from  his  last  asylum.  In  the  opening  of  the  "  Oedipus 
Coloneus, "  where  the  wretched  old  man  appears  leaning  on  his 
child,  and  seats  himself  in  the  consecrated  Grove  of  the  Furies, 
the  picture  presented  to  us  is  wonderfully  solemn  and  beautiful. 
The  patient,  duteous  tenderness  of  Antigone ;  the  scene  in  which 
she  pleads  for  her  brother  Polynices,  and  supplicates  her  father 
to  receive  his  offending  son ;  her  remonstrance  to  Polynices, 
when  she  entreats  him  not  to  carry  the  threatened  war  into  his 
native  country,  are  finely  and  powerfully  delineated ;  and  in  her 
lamentation  over  (Edipus,  when  he  perishes  in  the  mysterious  grove, 
there  is  a  pathetic  beauty,  apparent  even  through  the  stiffness  of 
the  translation. 


CORDELIA  203 

Alas!  I  only  wish  I  might  have  died 

With  my  poor  father ;  wherefore  should  I  ask 

For  longer  life? 

O  I  was  fond  of  misery  with  him  ;  > 

E'en  what  was  most  unlovely  grew  beloved 

When  he  was  with  me.     O  my  dearest  father, 

Beneath  the  earth  now  in  deep  darkness  hid, 

Worn  as  thou  wert  with  age,  to  me  ihou  still 

Wert  dear,  and  shalt  be  ever. 

— Even  as  he  wished  he  died. 

In  a  strange  land — for  such  was  his  desire — 

A  shady  turf  covered  his  lifeless  limbs, 

Nor  unlamented  fell !  for  O  these  eyes, 

My  father,  still  shall  weep  for  thee,  nor  time 

E'er  blot  thee  from  my  memory. 

The  filial  piety  of  Antigone  is  the  most  affecting  part  of  the 
tragedy  of  "  (Edipus  Coloneus:"  her  sisterly  affection,  and  her  heroic 
self-devotion  to  a  religious  duty,  form  the  plot  of  the  tragedy  called 
by  her  name.  When  her  two  brothers,  Eteocles  and  Polynices,  had 
slain  each  other  before  the  walls  of  Thebes,  Creon  issued  an  edict 
forbidding  the  rites  of  sepulture  to  Polynices  (as  the  invader  of  his 
country),  and  awarding  instant  death  to  those  who  should  dare  to 
bury  him.  We  know  the  importance  which  the  ancients  attached  to 
the  funeral  obsequies,  as  alone  securing  their  admission  into  the 
Elysian  fields.  Antigone,  upon  hearing  the  law  of  Creon,  which 
thus  carried  vengeance  beyond  the  grave,  enters  in  the  first  scene, 
announcing  her  fixed  resolution  to  brave  the  threatened  punishment: 
her  sister  Ismene  shrinks  from  sharing  the  peril  of  such  an 
undertaking,  and  endeavors  to  dissuade  her  from  it,  on  which 
Antigone  replies : — 


Wert  thou  to  proffer  what  I  do  not  ask — 

Thy  poor  assistance — I  would  scorn  it  now; 

Act  as  thou  wilt,  I  '11  bury  him  myself: 

Let  me  perform  but  that,  and  death  is  welcome. 

I  '11  do  the  pious  deed,  and  lay  me  down 

By  my  dear  brother ;  loving  and  beloved, 

We'll  rest  together. 


•204  CORDELIA. 

She  proceeds  to  execute  her  generous  purpose ;  she  covers  with 
earth  the  mangled  corse  of  Polynices,  pours  over  it  the  accustomed 
libations,  is  detected  in  her  pious  office,  and  after  nobly  defending 
her  conduct,  is  led  to  death  by  command  of  the  tyrant:  her  sister 
Ismene,  struck  with  shame  and  remorse,  now  comes  forward  to 
accuse  herself  as  a  partaker  in  the  offence,  and  share  her  sister's 
ptinishraent ;  but  Antigone  sternly  and  scornfully  rejects  her ;  and  after 
pouring  forth  a  beautiful  lamentation  on  the  misery  of  perishing 
"  without  the  nuptial  song — a  virgin  and  a  slave,"  she  dies 
d  ['antique — she  strangles  herself  to  avoid  a  lingering  death. 

Hemon,  the  son  of  Creon,  unable  to  save  her  life,  kills  himself 
upon  her  grave  :  but  throughout  the  whole  tragedy  we  are  left  in 
doubt  whether  Antigone  does  or  does  not  return  the  affection  of  this 
devoted  lover. 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  in  the  Antigone  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
what  may  be  called  the  effect  of  situation,  as  well  as  a  great  deal 
of  poetry  and  character:  she  says  the  most  beautiful  things  in  the 
world,  performs  the  most  heroic  actions,  and  all  her  words  and 
actions  are  so  placed  before  us  as  to  command  our  admiration. 
A:co:d';ng  to  the  classical  ideas  of  virtue  and  heroism,  the  character 
is  sublime,  and  in  the  delineation  there  is  a  severe  simplicity 
mingled  w'ith  its  Grecian  grace,  a  unity,  a  grandeur,  an  elegance, 
which  appeal  to  our  taste  and  our  understanding,  while  they  fill 
and  exalt  the  imagination ;  but  in  Cordelia  it  is  not  the  externail 
coloring  or  form,  it  is  not  what  she  says  or  does,  but  what  she 
is  in  herself,  what  she  feels,  thinks,  and  suffers,  which  continually 
awaken  our  sympathy  and  interest.  The  heroism  of  Cordelia  is 
more  passive  and  tender — it  melts  into  our  heart :  and  in  the 
veiled  loveliness  and  unostentatious  delicacy  of  her  character,  there 
is  an  effect  more  profound  and  artless,  if  it  be  less  striking  and 
less  elaborate  than  in  the  Grecian  heroine.  To  Antigone  we  give 
our  admiration,  to  Cordelia  our  tears.  Antigone  stands  before  us 
m  her  austere  and  statue-like  beauty,  like  one  of  the  marbles  of 
the  Parthenon.  If  Cordelia  remind  us  of  anything  on  earth,  it 
is  of  one  of  the  Madonnas  in  the  old  Italian  pictures,  "  with 
downcast  eyes  beneath  th'  almighty  dove ; "  and  as  that  heavenly 
form  is  connected  with  our  human  sympathies  only  by  the  expression 


CORDELIA 


205 


of  maternal  tenderness  or  maternal  sorrow,  even  so  Cordelia  would  be 
almost  too  angelic,  were  she  not  linked  to  our  earthly  feelings, 
bound  to  our  very  hearts,  by  her  filial  love,  her  wrongs,  her 
sufferings,   and  her  tears. 


HISTOEICAL  CHARACTEES. 


C  LE  0  P ATKA. 


I  CANNOT  agree  with  one  of  the  most  philosophical  of  Shakspeare's 
critics,  who   has  asserted   "  that  the   actual   truth  of  particular  events, 
in    proportion   as    we   are    conscious   of    it,    is   a    drawhack    on   the 
pleasure    as   well   as   the   dignity   of    tragedy."     If    this    observation 
applies   at   all,  it   is  equally  just  with  regard   to   characters :    and   in 
either  case  can  we  admit   it  ?     The   reverence  and   the   simpleness  of 
heart  with  which   Shakspeare   has  treated   the   received   and   admitted 
truths    of  history — I  mean   according   to    the  imperfect   knowledge   of 
his  time — is  admirable ;  his  inaccuracies  are  few  :  his  general  accuracy, 
allowing  for  the  distinction  between   the   narrative   and   the   dramatic 
form,  is     acknowledged    to   be    wonderful.       He    did    not   steal    the 
precious  material  from  the  treasury  of  history,  to  debase   its  purity — 
new-stamp  it  arbitrarily  with  effigies  and  legends  of  his  own  devising, 
and  then  attempt   to   pass    it     current,  like   Dryden,  Racine,  and    the 
rest  of  those  poetical    coiners  :    he  only  rubbed  off  the    rust,  purified 
and   brightened  it,  so  that  history  herself  has  been   known  to  receive 
it  back  as  sterling. 

Truth,  wherever  manifested,  should  be  sacred :  so  Shakspeare 
deemed,  and  laid  no  profime  hand  upon  her  altars.  But  tragedy — 
majestic  tragedy,  is  worthy  to  stand  before  tlie  sanctuary  of  Truth, 
and  to  be  the  priestess  of  her  oracles.  '-  Whatever  in  religion  is 
holy  and  sublime,  in  virtue  amiable  or  grave,  whatsoever  hath  passion 
or  admiration  in  all  the  changes  of  that  which  is  called  fortune  from 
without,   or   the   wily   subtleties    and   refluxes  of  man's    thought   from 

27 


210  CLEOPATRA. 

within;"* — whatever  is  pitiful  in  the  weakness,  sublime  in  the 
streniTth,  or  terrible  in  the  perversion  of  human  intellect,  these  are 
the  domain  of  Tragedy.  Sybil  and  Muse  at  once,  she  holds  aloft 
the  book  of  human  fate,  and  is  the  interpreter  of  its  mysteries. 
It  is  not,  then,  making  a  mock  of  the  serious  sorrows  of  real 
life,  nor  of  those  human  beings,  who  lived,  suffered  and  acted 
upon  this  earth,  to  array  them  in  her  rich  and  stately  robes,  and 
present  them  before  us  as  powers  evoked  from  dust  and  darkness, 
to  awaken  the  generous  sympathies,  iiic  terror  or  the  pity  of 
mankind.  It  does  not  add  to  the  pain,  as  far  as  tragedy  is  a 
source  of  emotion,  that  the  v\n-ongs  and  sulferings  represented,  the 
guilt  of  Lady  Macbeth,  the  despair  of  Constance,  the  arts  of 
Cleopatra,  and  the  distresses  of  Katherine,  had  a  real  existence ; 
but  it  adds  infinitely  to  the  moral  effect  as  a  subject  of  contemplation 
and   a   lesson  of  conduct.f 

I  shall  be  able  to  illustrate  these  observations  more  fully  in  the 
course  of  this  section,  in  which  we  will  consider  those  characters 
which  are  drawn  from  history ;    and  first,  Cleopatra. 

Of  all  Shakspeare's  female  characters,  Miranda  and  Cleopatra 
appear  to  me  the  most  wonderful.  The  first,  unequalled  as  a  poetic 
conception;  the  latter,  miraculous  as  a  work  of  art.  If  we  could 
make  a  regular  classification  of  his  characters,  these  would  form 
the  two  extremes  of  simplicity  and  complexity;  and  all  his  other 
characters  would  be  found  to  fill  up  some  shade  or  gradation  between 
these   two. 

Great  crimes  springing  from  high  passions,  grafted  on  high 
qualities,  are  the  legitimate  source  of  tragic  poetry.  But  to  make 
the  extreme  of  littleness  produce  an  effect  like  grandeur — to  make 
the  excess  of  iVailty  produce  an  effect  like  power — to  heap  up 
together    all   that    is  most    unsubstantial,  frivolous,  vain,  contemptible, 

*  Milton. 

[  "  That  the  treachery  of  King  John,  the  death  of  Arthur,  and  the  grief  of 
Constance,  liad  a  real  truth  in  history,  sharpens  the  .sense  of  pain,  while  it  hangs  a 
leaden  wciglit  on  tjie  heart  and  tlie  imagination.  Sometliing  whispers  us  that  we 
have  no  right  to  malce  a  mock  of  calamities  like  these,  or  to  turn  the  truth  of 
things  into  the  puppet  and  plaything  of  our  fancies." — See  Characters  of  Shakspeare's 
Plays. — To  consider  thus   is  not  to  consider  too  dccj)ly,  but  not  deeply  enough. 


CLEOPATRA.  211 

und  variable,  till  the  ^vorthlessness  be  lost  in  the  magnitude,  and 
a  sense  of  the  sublime  spring  from  the  very  elements  of  littleness— 
to  do  this,  belonged  only  to  Shakspeare,  that  ^vorker  of  miracles. 
Cleopatra  is  a  brilliant  antithesis,  a  compound  of  contradictions, 
of  all  that  ^ve  most  hate,  \vlth  what  we  most  admire.  The 
whole  character  is  the  triumph  of  the  external  over  the  innate ; 
and  yet  like  one  of  lier  country's  hieroglyphics,  though  she  present 
at  first  view  a  splendid  and  perplexing  anomaly,  there  is  deep 
meaning  and  wondrous  skill  in  the  apparent  enigma,  when  Ave 
come  to  analyze  and  decypher  it.  But  how  are  we  to  arrive  at 
the  solution  of  this  glorious  riddle,  whose  dazzling  complexity 
continually   mocks     and   eludes    us  1      What   is    most    astonishing   in 

the     character    of    Cleopatra,    is     its     antithetical     construction its 

consistent  inconsistency,  if  I  may  use  such  an  expression — which 
renders  it  quite  impossible  to  reduce  it  to  any  elementary  principles. 
It  will,  perhaps,  be  found  on  the  whole,  that  vanity  and  the 
love  of  power  predominate;  but  I  dare  not  say  it  is  so,  for 
these  qualities  and  a  hundred  others  mingle  into  each  other,  and 
shift,  and  change,  and  glance  away,  like  the  colors  in  a  peacock's 
train. 

In  some  others  of  Shakspeare's  female  characters,  also  remarkable 
for  their  complexity  (Portia  and  Juliet  for  instance),  w^e  are  struck 
with  the  delightful  sense  of  harmony  in  the  midst  of  contrast,  so 
that  the  idea  of  unity  and  simplicity  of  effect  is  produced  in  the 
midst  of  variety  ;  but  in  Cleopatra  it  is  the  absence  of  unity  and 
simplicity  which  strikes  us ;  the  impression  is  that  of  perpetual 
and  irreconcilable  contrast.  The  continual  approximation  of  whatever 
is  most  opposite  in  character,  in  situation,  in  sentiment,  would  be 
fatiguing,  w^ere  it  not  so  perfectly  natural :  the  woman  herself 
would  be   distracting,    if   she   were   not   so   enchanting. 

I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  that  Shakspeare's  Cleopatra  is 
the  real  historical  Cleopatra— the  "Rare  Egyptian,"— individualised 
and  placed  before  us.  Her  mental  accomplishments,  her  unequalled 
grace,  her  woman's  wit  and  w^oman's  wiles,  her  irresistible  allurements, 
her  starts  of  irregular  grandeur,  her  bursts  of  ungovernable  temper, 
her  vivacity  of  imagination,  her  petulant  caprice,  her  fickleness  and 
her  falsehood,  her  tenderness  and  her  truth,  her  childish  susceptibility 


212  CLEOPATRA. 

to  flattery,  her  magnificent  spirit,  her  royal  pride,  the  gorgeous 
eastern  coloring  of  the  character ;  all  these  contradictory  elements 
has  Shakspeare  seized,  mingled  them  in  their  extremes,  and  fused 
them  into  one  brilliant  impersonation  of  classical  elegance.  Oriental 
voluptuousness,  and  gipsy  sorcery. 

What  better  proof  can  we  have  of  the  individual  truth  of  the 
character  than  the  admission  that  Shakspeare's  Cleopatra  produces 
exactly  the  same  effect  on  us  that  is  recorded  of  the  real  Cleopatra? 
She  dazzles  our  faculties,  perplexes  our  judgment,  bewilders  and 
bewitches  our  fancy ;  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  drama, 
we  are  conscious  of  a  kind  of  fascination  against  which  our  moral 
sense  rebels,  but  from  which  there  is  no  escape.  The  epithets 
applied  to  her  perpetually  by  Antony  and  others  confirm  this 
impression  :  "  enchanting  queen  !" — "  witch" — "  spell" — "  great  fairy" 
— "  cockatrice" — "  serpent  of  old  Nile" — "  thou  grave  charm  !  "  *  are 
only  a  few  of  them ;  and  who  does  not  know  by  heart  the  famous 
quotations  in  which  this  Egyptian  Circe  is  described  with  all  her 
infinite   seductions  ? 

Fie  !-  wrangling  queen ! 
Whom  everything  becomes — to  chide,  to  laugh, 
To  weep ;  whose  every  passion  fully  strives 
To  make  itself,  in  thee,  fair  and  admired. 

Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety  : — 

For  vilest  things 
Become  themselves  in   her. 

And  the  pungent  irony  of  Enobarbus  has  well  exposed  her  feminine 
arts,  when  he  says,  on  the  occasion  of  Antony's  intended 
departure, — 

Cleopatra,  catching  but  the  least  noise  of  this,  dies  instantly :  I  have  seen  lier 
die  twenty  times  upon  far  poorer  moment. 


*  Grave,    in  the  sense   of  mighty  or  potent. 


CLEOPATRA.  '^12 

AKTONY. 

She  is  cunning  past  man's  thought. 

ENOBARBTJS. 

Alack,  sir,  no!  her  passions  are  made  of  nothing  but  the  finest  part  of  pure 
love  We  camiot  call  her  winds  and  waters,  sighs  and  tears;  they  are  greater 
storms  and  tempests  than  almanacks  can  report;  this  cannot  be  cunmng  m  her; 
if  it  be,  she  makes  a  shower  of  rain  as   well  as   Jove. 

The    ^vllole    secret    of  her   absolute  dominion  over   the  facile  Antony 
may   be    found   in   one  little   speech:— 

See  where  he  is— who's  with  him— what  he  docs— 

(I  did  not  send  you).     If  you  find  him  sad, 

Say  I  am  dancing ;  if  in  mirth,  report 

That  I  am  sudden  sick !     Quick  !  and  return. 

CHAE.MIAN. 

Madam,   methinks  if   you  did  love  him  dearly, 
You  do  not  hold  the  method  to  enforce 
The  like  from  him. 

CLEOrATr.A. 

What  should  I  do,  I  do  not  ? 

CHARMIAN. 

In  each  thing  give  him  way ;  cross  him  in  nothing. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Thou  teachest  like  a  fool :  the   way  to  lose  him. 

CHARMIAS. 

Tempt  liim  not  too  far. 

But  Cleopatra  is  a  mistress  of  her  art,  and  knows  better:  and 
what  a  picture  of  her  triumphant  petulance,  her  imperious  and 
imperial   coquetry,   is   given   in  her   own  words! 


214  U  L  E  O  P  A  T  11  A  . 

That  time — O  times  ! 
I  laugh'd  liim  out  of  patience;  and  that  night 
I  laughed  him  into  patience :  and  next   morn, 
Ere  the  ninth  hour,  I  drunk  him  to  his  bed ; 
Then  put  my  tires  and  mantles  on  him,  whilst 
I  wore  his  sword,  Philippan. 

When  Antony  enters  full  of  some  serious  purpose  which  he  is 
about  to  impart,  the  woman's  perverseness,  and  the  tyrannical 
waywardness  with  which  she  taunts  him  and  plays  upon  his  temper, 
are  admirably  depicted. 

I  know,  by  that  same  eye,  there's  some  good  news. 
What  says  the  married  woman  ?  *     You   may  go ; 
Would  she  had  never  given  you  leave  to  come ! 
Let  her  not  say,  'tis  I  that  keep  you  here ; 
I  have  no  power  upon  you  ;  hers  you  are. 


The  gods  best  know- 


CLEOPATRA. 


O,  never  was  there  queen 
So  mightily  betray'd  !     Yet  at  the  first, 
I  saw  the  treasons  planted. 


Cleopatra ! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Why  should  I  think  you  can  be  mine,  and  true. 
Though  you  in  swearing  shake  the  throned    gods, 
Who  have  been  false  to  Fulvia  ?     Riotous  madness, 
To  be  entangled  with  those  mouth-made  vows, 
Which  break  themselves  in  swearinjr ! 


•Fulvia,  the  first  wife   of  Anton;'. 


CLEOPATRA.  2ir) 

ANTONY. 

Most  sweet  queen ! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Nay,  pray  you,  seek  no  color  for  your  going, 
But  bid  farewell,  and  go. 

She   recovers    her   dignity    for  a    moment  at  the   news   of   Fulvia's 
death,  as  if  roused  by  a  blow:— 

Though  age  from  folly  could  not  give  me  freedom, 
It  does  from  childishness.     Can  Fulvia  die  ? 

And    then    follows    the    artful    mockery    with    which   she  tempts  and 
provokes  liim,  in  order  to  discover  whether  he  regrets  his  wife. 

O  most  false  love ! 
Where  be  the  sacred  vials  thou  shouldst  fill 
With  sorrowful  water  ?     Now  I  see,  I  see 
In  Fulvia's  death,  how  mine  receiv'd  shall  be. 

ANTONY. 

Quarrel  no  more;  but  be  prepared  to  know 
The  purposes  I  bear :  which  are,  or  cease, 
As  you  shall  give  th'  advice.     Now,  by  the  fire 
That  quickens  Nil  us'  shrine,  I  go  from  hence 
Thy  soldier,  servant,  making  peace  or  war, 
As  thou  affectest. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Cut  my  lace,  Charmian,  come- 
But  let  it  be.     I  am  quickly  ill,  and  well, 
So  Antony  loves. 

ANTONY. 

My  precious  queen,  forbear: 
And  give  true  evidence  to  his  love  wliich  stands 
An  honorable  trial. 


yiG  CLEOPATRA. 

CLEOPATRA. 

So  Fulvia  told  me. 
I  pr'ylhee  turn  aside,  and  weep  for  her: 
Then  bid  adieu  to  me,  and  say,  tlie  tears 
Belong  to  Egypt.     Good  now,  play  one  scene 
Of  excellent  dissembling ;  and  let  it  look 
Like  perfect  honor. 

ANTONY. 

You  '11  heat  my  blood — no  more! 

CLEOPATRA. 

You  can  do  better  yet;  but  tliis  is  meetly. 

ANTONY. 

Now,  by  my  sword — 

CLEOPATRA. 

And  target — still  he  mends : 
But  this  is  not  the  best.     Look,  pr'ythee,  Charmian, 
How  this  Herculean  Roman  does  become 
The  carriage  of  his  chafe  ! 

This  is,  indeed,  "  most  excellent  dissembling ; "  but  when  she  has 
fooled  and  chafed  the  Herculean  Roman  to  the  verge  of  danger, 
then  comes  that  return  of  tenderness  which  secures  the  power  she 
has  tried  to  the  utmost,  and  we  have  all  the  elegant,  the  poetical 
Cleopatra    in   her    beautiful   farewell. 

Forgive  me  ! 
Since  my  becomings  kill  me  when   they  do  not 
Eye  well  to  you.     Your  honor  calls   you  hence, 
Therefore  be  deaf  to  my  unpitied  folly, 
And  all  the  gods  go  with  you  !     Upon  your  sword 
Sit  laurell'd  victory ;  and  smooth  success 
Be  strew'd  before  your  feet ! 

Finer  still  are  the  workings  of  her  variable  mind  and  lively 
imagination,    after    Antony's     departure ;     her    fond     repining   at   his 


CLEOPATRA.  217 

absence,  her  violent  spn-it,  her  right  royal  wilfulness  and  impatience, 
as  if  it  were  a  wrong  to  her  majesty,  an  insult  to  her  sceptre, 
that  there  should  exist  in  her  despite  such  things  as  space  and 
time;  and  high  treason  to  her  sovereign  power,  to  dare  to  remember 
what  she   chooses   to   forget. 

Give  me  to  drink  mandragora, 

That  I  might  sleep  out  this  great  gap  of  time 

My  Antony  is  away. 

O  Charmian  ! 

Where  think'st  thou  he  is  now?     Stands  he,  or  sits  he, 

Or  does  he  walk  ?  or  is  he  on  his  horse  ? 

O  happy  horse,  to  bear  the  weight  of  Antony ! 

Do  bravely,  horse  !  for  wot'st  thou  whom  thou  mov'st  7 

The  demi-Atlas  of  this  earth — the  arm 

And  burgonet  of  men.     He's  speaking  now, 

Or  murmuring,  Where's  my  serpent  of  old  Nile? 

For  so  he  calls  me. 

Met'st  thou  my  posts  ? 

ALEXAS, 

Ay,  madam,  twenty  several  messengers : 
Why  do  you  send  so  thick  ? 

CLEOPATKA. 

Who's  born  that  day 
When  I  forget  to  send  to  Antony, 
Shall  die  a  beggar.     Ink  and  paper,  Charmian. 
Welcome,  my  good  Alexas.     Did  I,  Charmian, 
Ever  love  Ca;sar  so  ? 

CHAKMIAN. 

O  that  brave  Caisar! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Be  chok'd  with  such  another  emphasis ! 
Eay,  the  brave   Antony. 

CHARMIAN. 

The  valiant  Caesar  I 

28 


lia  CLEOPATRA. 


CLEOPATRA. 


By  Isis,  I  will  give  thee  bloody  teeth, 
If  thou  with  Coesar  paragon  again 
My  man  of  men  ! 


CHAR?.IIAN. 


By  your  most  gracious  pardon, 
I  sins  but  after  vou. 


CLEOPATKA. 

My  salad  days, 
When  I  was  green  in  judgment,  cold  in  blood, 
To  say  as  I  said  then.     But,  come  away — 
Get  me  some  ink  and  paper:  he  shall  have  every  day 
A  several  greeting,  or  I'll  unpeople  Egypt. 

We  learn  from  Plutarch,  that  it  was  a  favorite  amusement  with 
Antony  and  Cleopatra  to  ramble  through  the  streets  at  night,  and 
bandy  ribald  jests  with  the  populace  of  Alexandria.  From  the 
same  authority,  we  know  that  they  were  accustomed  to  live  on  the 
most  familiar  terms  with  their  attendants  and  the  companions  of 
their  revels.  To  these  traits  we  must  add,  that  with  all  her 
violence,  perverseness,  egotism,  and  caprice,  Cleopatra  mingled  a 
capability  for  warm  affections  and  kindly  feeling,  or  rather  what 
we  should  call  in  these  days,  a  constitutional  good-nature;  and  was 
lavishly  generous  to  lier  favorites  and  dependants.  These  characteristics 
we  find  scattered  through  the  play;  they  are  not  only  faithfully 
rendered  by  Shakspeare,  but  he  has  made  the  finest  use  of  them 
in  his  delineation  of  manners.  Hence  the  occasional  freedom  of 
her  women  and  her  attendants,  in  the  midst  of  their  fears  and 
flatteries,  becomes  most  natural  and  consistent:  hence,  too,  their 
devoted  attachment  and  fidelity,  proved  even  in  death.  But  as 
illustrative  of  Cleopatra's  disposition,  perhaps  the  finest  and  most 
characteristic  scene  in  the  whole  play,  i-^  that  ir.  which  the 
messenger  arrives  from  Rome  with  the  tidings  of  Antony's  marriage 
v^nlh  Octavia.  She  perceives  at  once  with  quickness  that  all  is 
not    v/ell,    and    she    hastens   to    anticipate    the    worst,   that    she   may 


CLEOPATRA.  219 

have  the  pleasure  of  being  disappointed.  Hex-  impatience  to 
know  what  she  fears  to  learn,  the  vivacity  with  which  she 
gradually  works  herself  up  into  a  state  of  excitement,  and  at 
length  into  fury,  is  wrought  out  with  a  force  of  truth  which  makes 
us   recoil. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Antony's  dead ! 
If  thou  say  so,  villain,  thou  kill'st  thy  mistress. 
But  well  and  free, 

If  thou  so  yield  him,  there  is  geld,  and  here 
My  bluest  veins  to  kiss ;  a  hand  that  kings 
Have  lipp'd,  and  trembled  kissing. 

MESSENGER. 

First,  madam,  he  is  well. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Why,  there's  more  gold.    But,  sirrah,  mark !  we  use 
To  say,  the  dead  are  well :  bring  it  to  that, 
The  gold  I  give  thee  will  I  melt,  and  pour 
Down  thy  ill-uttering  throat. 

MESSENGER. 

Good  madam,  hear  me. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Well,  go  to,  I  will. 
But  there  's  no  goodness  in  thy  face.     If  Antony 
Be  free  and  healthful,  why  so  tart  a  favor 
To  trumpet  such  good  tidings  ?    If  not  well, 
Thou  should'st  come  like  a  fury  crown'd  with  snakes. 

MESSENGER. 

Wil't  please  you  hear  me  ? 

CLEOPATRA. 

I  have  a  mind  to  strike  thee  ere  thou  speak'st ; 
Yet  if  thou  say  Antony  lives,  is  well, 


•2-20  CLEOPATRA. 

Or  I'riends  with  Caesar,  or  not  captive  to  him. 
I  '11  set  thee  in  a  shower  of  gold,  and  hail 
Ricii  pearls  upon  thee. 


MESSENGER. 

Madam,  he's  well. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Well  said. 

MESSEXGER. 

And  friends  with  Caesar. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Thou  art  an  honest  man. 

MESSESGER. 

Caesar  and  he  are  greater  friends  than  ever. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Make  thee  a  fortune  from  me. 

MESSENGER. 

But  yet,  madam — 

CLEOPATRA. 

I  do  ndt  like  hut  yel — it  does  allay 

The  good  precedence.     Fie  upon  but  yet: 

But  yet  is  as  a  gaoler  to  bring  forth 

Some  monstrous  malefactor.     Pr'ythee,  friend, 

Pour  out  thy  pack  of  matter  to  mine  ear, 

The  good  and  bad  together.     He's  friends  with  Caesar 

In  state  of  health,  thou  say'.st ;  and  thou  say'st  free. 

MESSENGER. 

Free,  madam !    No :  I  made  no  such  report, 
He's  bound  unto  Octavia. 


CLEOPATRA.  221 

CLEOPATRA. 

For  what  good  turn  ? 

MESSENGER. 

Madam,  he's  married  to  Octavia. 

CLEOPATRA. 

The  most  infectious  pestilence  upon  thee  !         [Strikes  him  down. 

MESSENGER. 

Good  madam,  patience. 

CLEOPATRA. 

What  say  you?  \_Slrikes  him  again. 

Hence  horrible  villain !  or  I  '11  spurn  thine  eyes 
Like  balls  before  me — I  '11  unhair  thine  head — 
Thou  shalt  be  whipp'd  with  wire,  and  stewed  in  brine, 
Smarting  in  ling'ring  pickle. 

MESSENGER. 

Gracious  madam ! 
I,  that  do  bring  the  news,  made  not  the  match. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Say  'tis  not  so,  a  province  I  will  give  thee, 
And  make  thy  fortunes  proud :  the  blow  thou  hadst 
Shall  make  thy  peace  for  moving  me  to  rage; 
And  I  will  boot  thee  with  what  gift  beside 
Thy  modesty  can  beg. 

MESSENGER. 

He 's  married,  madam. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Rogue,  thou  hast  lived  too  long.  [Draws  a  dagger 


222  C  L  E  O  P  A  T  R  A 


MESSENGER. 


Nay  then  I  '\\  run. 

What  mean  you,  madam  ?     I  have  made  no  fault.  [Exit 


CHAKMIAN. 


Good  madam,  keep  yourself  within  yourself; 
Tlie  man  is  innocent. 

CLEOPATKA. 

Some  innocents  'scape  not  the  thunderbolt. 
xMelt  Egypt  mto  Nile !  and  kindly  creatures 
Turn  all  to  serpents  I     Call  the  slave  agaui  ; 
Though  I  am  mad,  I  will  not  bite  him — Call ! 

CHAUAIIAN. 

lie  is  afraid  to  come. 

CLEOPATRA. 

I  will  not  hurt  him. 
These  hands  do  lack  nobility,  that  they  strike 
A  meaner  than  mjrself. 
***** 

CLEOPATRA. 

In  praising  Antony,  I  have  dispraised  Caesar. 

CHARMIAN. 

Many  times,  madam. 

CLEOPATRA. 

I  am  paid  for  't  now — 
Lead  me  from  hence. 

I  faint.     O  Iras,  Charmian — 'tis  no  matter: 
Go  to  the  fellow,  good  Alexas;  bid  him 
Report  the  features  of  Octavia,  her  years, 
Her  inclination — ^let  him  not  leave  out 

The  color  of  her  hair.     Bring  me  word  quickly.  [Exit  Alex, 

Let  him  for  ever  go — ^let  him  not — Charmian, 
Though  he  be  painted  one  way  like  a  Gorgon, 


CLEOPATRA.  223 

T'other  way  he's  a  Mars.     Bid  you  Alexas  [To  Mardian. 

Bring  me  word  how  tall  she  is.     Pity  me,  Charmian, 
But  do  not  speak  to  me.     Lead  me  to  my  chamber. 

I  have  given  this  scene  entire  because  I  know  nothing  comparable 
to  it.  The  pride  and  arrogance  of  the  Eg^'jDtian  queen,  the 
blandishment  of  the  woman,  the  unexpected  but  natural  transitions 
of  temper  and  feeling,  the  contest  of  various  passions,  and  at 
length — when  the  wild  hurricane  has  spent  its  fury — the  melting 
into  tears,  faintness,  and  languishment,  are  portrayed  with  the  most 
astonishing  power,  and  truth,  and  skill  in  feminine  nature.  More 
wonderful  still  is  the  splendor  and  force  of  coloring  which  is  shed 
over  this  extraordinary  scene.  The  mere  idea  of  an  angry  woman 
beating  her  menial,  presents  something  ridiculous  or  disgusting  to 
the  mind ;  in  a  queen  or  a  tragedy  heroine  it  is  still  more 
indecorous ;  *  yet  this  scene  is  as  far  as  possible  from  the  vulgar 
or  the  comic.  Cleopatra  seems  privileged  to  "  touch  the  brink  of 
all  we  hate"  with  impunity.  This  imperial  termagant,  this  "wrangling 
queen,  M'hom  everything  becomes,"  becomes  even  her  fury.  We 
knov/  not  by  what  strange  power  it  is,  that  in  the  midst  of  all 
these  unruly  passions  and  childish  caprices,  the  poetry  of  the 
character,  and  the  fanciful  and  sparkling  grace  of  the  delineation, 
are  sustained  and  still  rule  in  the  imagination ;  but  we  feel  that 
it   is   so. 

I  need  hardly  observe,  that  we  have  historical  authority  for  the 
excessive  violence  of  Cleopatra's  temper.  Witness  the  story  of  her 
boxing  the  ears  of  her  treasurer  in  presence  of  Octavius,  as  related 
by  Plutarch.  Shakspeare  has  made  a  fine  use  of  this  anecdote  also 
towards  the  conclusion  of  the  drama,  but  it  is  not  equal  in  power 
to    this   scene   with    the   messenger. 

The  man  is  afterwards  brought  back,  almost  by  force,  to  satisfy 
Cleopatra's  jealous  anxiety,  by  a  description  of  Octavia : — but  this 
time,  made   wise     by     experience,     he     takes     care     to     adapt     his 


*  The  well  known  violence  and  coarseness  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  manners,  in 
which  she  was  imitated  by  the  women  about  her,  may  in  Shakspeare's  time  have 
rendered  the  image  of  a  royal  virago  less  ofTensive  and  less  extraordinary. 


224  C  L  E  O  P  A  T  R  A  . 

information  to  the  humors  of  his  imperious  mistress,  and  gives 
her  a  satirical  picture  of  her  rival.  The  scene  which  follows,  in 
which  Cleopatra — artful,  acute,  and  penetrating  as  she  is — becomes 
the  dupe  of  her  feminine  spite  and  jealousy,  nay,  assists  in  duping 
herself;  and  after  having  cuffed  the  messenger  for  telling  her 
truths  which  are  offensive,  rewards  him  for  the  falsehood  which 
flatters  her  weakness — is  not  only  an  admirable  exhibition  of 
character,  but    a   fine   moral   lesson. 

She    concludes,    after    dismissing     the    messenger    with   gold    and 
thanks, 

I  repent  me  much 
That  I  so  harry'd  him.     "Why,  methinks  by  him 
This  creature's  no  such  thinfj? 


O  nothing,  madam. 

CLEOPATRA. 

The  man  hath  seen  some  majesty,  and  should  know  ! 

Do  we  not  fancy  Cleopatra  drawing  herself  up  with  all  the  vain 
consciousness  of  rank  and  beauty  as  she  pronounces  this  last  line  ? 
and  is  not  this  the  very  woman  who  celebrated  her  own  apotheosis, — 
who  arrayed  herself  in  the  robe  and  diadem  of  the  goddess  Tsis, 
and  could  find  no  titles  magnificent  enough  for  her  children  but 
those   of  the    Sun    and   the   Moon. 

The  despotism  and  insolence  of  her  temper  are  touched  in  some 
other  places  most  admirably.  Thus,  when  she  is  told  that  the 
Romans  libel   and   abuse  her,  she   exclaims, — 

Sink  Rome,  and  their  tongues  rot 
That  speak  against  us  ! 

And  when  one  of  her  attendants  observes  that  "  Herod  of  Jewry  dared 
not  look  upon  her  but  when  she  were  well  pleased,"  she  immediately 
replies,  "  That  Herod's  head  Fll  have."  * 

*She  wag  as  good   as   her  word.     Sea   the  life  of  Antony  in  Plutarch. 


CLEOPATRA.  *2~ 

When  Proculeius  surprises  her  in  her  monument,  and  snatches 
her  poniard  from  her,  terror,  and  fury,  pride,  passion,  and 
disdain,  swell  in  her  haughty  soul,  and  seem  to  shake  her  very 
being. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Where  art  thou,  death  ? 
Come  hither,  come!  come,  come  and  take  a  queen 
Worth  many  babes  and  beggars  ! 

PROCULEIUS. 

0  temperance,  lady ! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Sir,  I  will  eat  no  meat ;  I  '11  not  drink,  sir : 
li  idle  talk  will  once  be  necessary. 

1  '11  not  sleep  neitlier ;  this  mortal  house  I  '11  ruin, 
Do  Cffisar  what  he  can!     Know,  sir,  that  I 
Will  not  wait  pinion'd  at  your  master's  court, 
Nor  once  be  chastis'd  with  the  sober  eye 

Of  dull  Octavia.     Shall  they  hoist  me  up. 
And  show  me  to  tlie  shouting  varletry. 
Of  censuring  Rome?     Rather  a  ditch  in  Egypt 
Be  gentle  grave  to  me  !     Rather  on  Nilus'  mud 
Lay  me  stark  naked,  and  let  the  water-flies 
Blow  me  into  abhorring!     Rather  make 
My  country's  high  pyramids  my  gibbet. 
And  liang  me  up  in  chains  ! 

In  the  same  spirit  of  royal  bravado,  but  finer  still,  and  worked  up 
with  a  truly  Oriental  exuberance  of  fancy  and  imagery,  is  her  famous 
description  of  Antony,   addressed  to   Dolabella : — 

Most  noble  empress,  you  have  heard  of  me? 

CLEOPATRA. 

I  cannot  tell. 

DOLABELLA. 

Assuredly,  you  know  me. 
29 


226  C  L  E  O  P  A  T  RA  . 


CLEOPATRA. 

No  matter,  sir,  what  I  have  heard  or  known. 

You  laugh  when  boys,  or  women,  tell  their  dreams; 

Is  't  not  your  trick  ? 

DOLABELLA. 

I  understand  not,  madam. 

CLEOPATRA. 

I  dream'd  there  was  an  emperor  Antony ; 
O  such  another  sleep,  that  I  might  see 
But  such  another  man  ! 

DOLAEELLA. 

If  it  might  please  you 

CLEOPATRA. 

His  face  was  as  the  heavens ;  and  therein  stuck 

A  sun  and  moon;  which  kept  their  course,  and  lighted 

The  little  O,  the  earth. 

DOLABELLA. 

Most  sovereign  creature 

CLEOPATRA. 

His  legs  bestrid  the  ocean:  his  reared  arm 

Crested  the  world;  his  voice  was  propertied 

As  all  the  tuned  spheres,  and  that  to  friends ; 

But  when  he  meant  to  quail  or  shake  the  orb 

He  was  as  rattling  thunder.     For  his  bounty. 

There  was  no  winter  in  't ;  an  autumn  't  was, 

That  grew  the  more  by  reaping.    His  delights 

Were  dolphin  like ;  they  show'd  his  back  above 

The  element  they  liv'd  in.     In  his  livery* 

Walk'd  crowns  and  coronets;  realms  and  islands  were 

As  plates  t  dropp'd  from  his  pocket. 


*i    e.  retinue.  fie.  silver  coins  from  the  Spanish  ^/af  a. 


CLEOPATRA.  227 

DOLABELLA. 

Cleopatra ! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Think  you  there  was,  or  might  be,  such  a  man 
As  this  I  dream'd  of? 

DOLABELLA. 

Gentle  madam,  no. 

CLEOPATRA. 

You  lie,— up  to  the  hearing  of  the  gods  I 

There  was  no  roo»  left   in  tUis  amazing  picture   for  the  display 
of   that    p.^sionate    maternal    tenderness,  which  ,^vas  a    strong    and 
redeeming  feature  in  Cleopatra's  historical  character ;    but   ,t   .s  n 
left   untouched;    for    when  she  is  inrprecating    '^'f'^Jl^^ 
she  wishes,  as  the  last   and  worst  of  poss.ble  evds,  that      thunde, 

mav   smite   Csesarion!" 

I ,  representing  the  n.utual  passion  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra  a^ 
real  and  fervent  Shakspeare  has  adhered  to  the  truth  of  h.sto.y  - 
en  as  to  general  nature.  On  Antony's  side  ,t  .s  a  speces  ol 
nfatuation,  I  single  and  engrossing  feeling,  tt  .s,  n.  short  h 
love  of  a  man  declined  in  years  for  a  woman  very  »-!>  )°™=^ 
thai  himself,  and  who  has  subjected  him  to  every  speces  ol  female 
rianlnt.'  In  Cleopatra  the  passion  is  of  a  mixt  n^.  ma  e 
„p   of  real    attachment    combin«l    v.th    the    love  P^a.     .^^^^^ 

love   of    power,   and    the   love  of    self.      ^ot    onl> 

t    complicaied,  but  no   one    sentiment  could    have   ex.sted    pure 

and    unva  yin.  in  such   a  mind    as  hers :    her    pass.on   m   -tself  .s 

1    fixed  to  one  centre;    hut  like  the  pennon  stream.ng  f™m  th 

™  ;    it  flutters  and  veers  with  every  breath  of  her  var.able  temper; 

mast.it    utte  caprices,  follies,  ami     even     vices, 

^ll^yter,::  sail  id—  in  Cleopatra,  and  the  change 
TTlZl  nhee  in  h  r  deportment  towards  Antony,  when  then 
which  takes    place         ne        p  interesting  in 

evil   fortune  darkens  round  them,   is   as   oeau 
itself    as   it  is  striking    and    natural.      Instead   of    the    a.ry  capnce 


2-iS  C  L  E  O  P  A  T  R  A  . 

and  provoking  petulance  she  displays  in  the  first  scenes,  we  have 
a  mixture  of  tenderness,  and  artifice,  and  fear,  and  submissive 
blandishment.  Her  behavior,  for  instance,  after  the  battle  of 
Actiura,  when  she  quails  before  the  noble  and  tender  rebuke 
of  her  lover,   is   partly   female  subtlety,   and  partly   natural   feehng. 

CLEOPATRA. 

O  my  lord,  my  lord, 
Forgive  my  fearful  sails  !  I  little  thought 
You  would  have  followM. 


Egypt,  thou  know'st  too  well 
My  heart  was  to  the  rudder  tied  by  the  strings, 
And  thou  should'st  tow  me  after.     O'er  my  spirit 
Tliy  full  supremacy  thou  know'st ;  and  that 
Thy  beck  might  from  the  bidding  of  the  gods 
Command  me. 

CLEOFATUA. 

O,  my  pardon ! 


Now  I  must 
To  the  young  man  send  humble  treaties,  dodge 
And  palter  in  the  shifts  of  lowness ;  who 
With  half  the  bulk  o'  the  world  play'd  as  I  pleas'd, 
Making  and  marring  fortunes.     You  did  know 
How  much  you  were  my  conqueror ;  and  that 
My  sword,  made  v/eak  by  my  affection,  would 
Obey  it  on  all  cause. 

CLEOPATRA. 

O  pardon,  pardon  ! 

ANTONY. 

Fall  not  a  tear,  I  say ;  one  of  them  rates 
All  that  is  won  and  lost.     Give  me  a  kiss ; 
Even  this  repays  me. 


CLEOPATRA.  229 

It  is  perfectly  in  keeping  with  the  individual  character,  that 
Cleopatra,  alike  destitute  of  moral  strength  and  physical  courage, 
should  cower,  terrified  and  subdued,  before  the  masculine  spirit 
of  her  lover,  when  once  she  has  fairly  roused  it.  Thus  Tasso's 
Armida,  half  syren,  half  sorceress,  in  the  moment  of  strong  feeling, 
forgets  her  incantations,  and  has  recourse  to  persuasion,  to  prayers, 
and  to   tears. 

Lascia  gl'  incanti,  e  vuol  provar  se  vaga 
E  supplice  beltii.  sia  miglior  maga. 

Though  the  poet  afterwards  gives  us  to  understand,  that  even  in 
this   relinquishment   of  art   there   was    a   more   refined   artifice. 

Nella  doglia  amara 
Cia  lutte  non  oblia  1'  arti  e  le  frodi. 


And  something  like  this  inspires  the  conduct  of  Cleopatra  towards 
Antony  in  his  fallen  fortunes.  The  reader  should  refer  to  that 
fine  scene,  where  Antony  surprises  Thyreus  kissing  her  hand,  "  that 
kingly  seal  and  plighter  of  high  hearts,"  and  rages  like  a  thousand 
hurricanes. 

The  character  of  Mark  Antony,  as  delineated  by  Shakspeare, 
reminds  me  of  the  Farnese  Hercules.  There  is  an  ostentatious 
display  of  power,  an  exaggerated  grandeur,  a  colossal  effect  in  tlie 
whole  conception,  sustained  throughout  in  the  pomp  of  the  language, 
which  seems,  as  it  flows  along,  to  resound  with  the  clang  of  arms, 
and  the  music  of  the  revel.  The  coarseness  and  violence  of  the 
historic  portrait  are  a  little  kept  down;  but  every  word  which 
Antony  utters  is  characteristic  of  the  arrogant  but  magnanimous 
Roman,  who  "  with  half  the  bulk  o'  the  world  played  as  he 
pleased,"  and  was  himself  the  sport  of  a  host  of  mad  (and  bad) 
passions,   and  the  slave   of  a   woman. 

History  is  followed  closely  in  all  the  details  of  the  catastrophe, 
and  there  is  something  wonderfully  grand  in  the  hurried  march  of 
events  towards  the  conclusion.  As  disasters  hem  her  round,  Cleopatra 
gathers  up  her  faculties  to  meet  them,  not  M^ith  the  calm  fortitude  of 


230  CLEOPATRA 

a  great    soul,  but    the    haughty,  tameless    spirit   of   a    wilful    woman, 
unused  to   reverse   or    contradiction. 

Her  speech,  after  Antony  hss  expired  in  her  arms,  I  have 
always  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  wonderful  in  Shakspeare. 
Cleopatra  is  not  a  woman  to  grieve  silently.  The  contrast  between 
the  violence  of  her  passions  and  the  weakness  of  her  sex,  between 
her  regal  grandeur  and  her  excess  of  misery,  her  impetuous, 
unavailing  struggles  v/ith  the  fearful  destiny  which  has  compassed 
her,  and  the  mixture  of  wild  impatience  and  pathos  in  her  agony, 
are  really  magnificent.  She  faints  on  the  body  of  Antony,  and  is 
recalled  to   life   by   the  cries  of  her   women  : — 

IRAS. 

Royal  Egypt — empress  ! 

CLEOPATKA. 

No  more,  but  e'en  a  woman  !  *  and  commanded 

By  such  poor  passion  as  the  maid  that  milks, 

And  does  the  meanest  chares. — ^It  were   for  me 

To  throw  my  sceptre  at  the  injurious  gods  : 

To  tell  them  that  our  world  did  equal  theirs 

Till  they  had  stolen  our  jewel.     All's  but  nought ; 

Patience  is  sottish,  and  impatience  does 

Become  a  dog  that 's  mad.     Then  is  it  sin 

To  rush  into  the  secret  house  of  death 

Ere  death  dare  come  to  us  ?     How  do  you,  women  ? 

What,  what?  good  cheer!  why  how  now,  Charm ian? 

My  noble  girls  ! — ah,  women,  women  !  look 

Our  lamp  is  spent,  is  out. 

We  '11  bury  him,  and  then  what 's  brave,  what's  noble. 

Let 's  do  it  after  the  high  Roman  fashion, 

And  make  death  proud  to  take  us. 

But  although  Cleopatra  talks  of  dying  '•'  after  the  high  Roman 
fashion,"  she  fears  what  she  most  desires,  and  cannot  perform 
with    simplicity    what    costs     her  such    an    effort.       That     extreme 

•  Cleopatra   replies   to   the   first   word   she  hears   on   recovering   her  senses,  "  No 
more  an  empress,  but  a  mere  woman  !  " 


CLEOPATRA.  231 

physical  cowardice,  which  was  so  strong  a  trait  in  her  historical 
character,  which  led  to  the  defeat  of  Actium,  which  made  her 
delay  the  execution  of  a  fatal  resolve,  till  she  had  tried  "  conclusions 
infinite  of  easy  w^ays  to  die,"  Shakspeare  has  rendered  with  the 
finest  possible  effect,  and  in  a  manner  which  heightens  instead  of 
diminishing  our  respect  and  interest.  Timid  by  nature,  she  is 
courageous  by  the  mere  force  of  \\\\\,  and  she  lashes  herself  up 
with  high-sounding  words  into  a  kind  of  false  daring.  Her 
lively  imagination  suggests  every  incentive,  which  can  spur  her 
on  to  the  deed  she  has  resolved,  yet  trembles  to  contemplate. 
She  pictures  to  herself  all  the  degradations  which  must  attend 
her  captivity;  and  let  it  be  observed,  that  those  which  she 
anticipates  are  precisely  such  as  a  vain,  luxurious,  and  haughty 
woman  w^ould  especially  dread,  and  which  only  true  virtue  and 
magnanimity  could  despise.  Cleopatra  could  have  endured  the 
loss  of  freedom ;  but  to  be  led  in  triumph  through  the  streets 
of  Rome  is  insufferable.  She  could  stoop  to  Caesar  w^ith  dissembling 
courtesy,  and  meet  duplicity  wdth  superior  art;  but  "to  be  chastised" 
Dy  the  scornful  or  upbraiding  glance  of  the  injured  Octavia — "  rather 
a   ditch    in   Egypt. " 

If  knife,  drugs,  serpents,  have 
Edges,  sting,  or  operation,  I   am  safe. 
Your  wife,  Octavia,  with  her  modest  eyes, 
And  still  conclusion,*  shall  acquire  no  honor 
Demuring  upon  me. 

Now,  Iras,  what  think'st  thou? 
Thou,  an  Egyptian  puppet,  shalt  he  shown 
In  Rome  as  well  as  I.     Mechanic  slaves, 
With  greasy  aprons,  rules,  and  hammers,  shall 
Uplift  us  to  the  view.     In  their  thick  breaths, 
Rank  of  gross  diet,  shall  we  be  enclouded, 
And  forc'd  to  drink  their  vapor. 

IRAS. 

The  gods  forbid  I 
*  i,  e.    sedate   determination. — Johxson. 


232  C  L  E  O  P  A  T  RA  . 

CLEOPATRA. 

Nay,  'tis  moa.  certain,  Iras.     Saucy  lictors 

Will  catch  at  us  like  strumpets ;  and  scald  rhymers 

Ballad  us  out  o'  tune.     The  quick  comedians 

Extemporally  will  stage  us,  and  present 

Our  Alexandrian  revels.     Antony 

Shall  be   brought  drunken  forth ;   and  I  shall  see 

Some  squeaking  Cleopatra  boy  my   greatness. 


She  then  calls  for  her  diadem,  her  robes  of  state,  and  attires 
herself  as  if  "  again  for  Cydnus,  to  meet  Mark  Antony."  Coquette 
to  the  last,  she  must  make  Death  proud  to  take  her,  and  die  "  phcenix 
like,"  as  she  had  lived,  with  all  the  pomp  of  preparation — luxurious 
in  her  despair. 

The  death  of  Lucretia,  of  Portia,  of  Arria,  and  others  who  died 
•'  after  the  high  Roman  fashion,"  is  sublime  according  to  the  Pagan 
ideas  of  virtue,  and  yet  none  of  them  so  powerfully  affect  the 
imao"ination,  as  the  catastrophe  of  Cleopatra.  The  idea  of  this 
frail,  timid,  wayward  woman,  dying  with  heroism,  from  the  mere 
force  of  passion  and  will,  takes  us  by  surprise.  The  Attic  elegance 
of  her  mind,  her  poetical  imagination,  the  pride  of  beauty  and 
royalty  predominating  to  the  last,  and  the  sumptuous  and  picturesque 
accompaniments  with  which  she  surrounds  herself  in  death,  carry 
to  its  extreme  height  that  effect  of  contrast  which  prevails 
through  her  life  and  character.  No  arts,  no  invention  could  add 
to  the  real  circumstances  of  Cleopatra's  closing  scene.  Shakspeare 
has  shown  profound  judgment  and  feeling,  in  adhering  closely  to 
the  classical  authorities;  and  to  say  that  the  language  and 
sentiments  worthily  fill  up  the  outline,  is  the  most  magnificent 
praise  that  can  be  given.  The  magical  play  of  fancy,  and  the 
overpowering  fascination  of  the  character,  are  kept  up  to  the  last; 
and  when  Cleopatra,  on  applying  the  asp,  silences  the  lamentations 
of  her  women  : — 


Peace !  peace ! 
Dost  thou  not  see  my  baby   at  my   breast, 
That  sucks  the  nurse  to  sleep  ? — 


CLEOPATRA.  t::i3 

These  few  words— the  contrast  between  the  tender  beauty  of  ths 
image,  and  the  horror  of  the  situation— produce  an  effect  more 
intensely  mournful  than  all  the  ranting  in  the  world.  The  generous 
devotion  of  her  women  adds  the  moral  charm  which  alone  was 
wanting;  and  when  Octavius  hurries  in  too  late  to  save  his  victim, 
and  exclaims   when   gazing   on  her — 

She  looks  like  sleep — 
a's  she  would  catch  another  Antony 
In  her  ftrong  toil  of  grace, 

the  image  of  her  beauty  and  her  irresistible  arts,  triumphant  even 
in  death,  is  at  once  brought  before  us,  and  one  masterly  and 
comprehensive  stroke  consummates  this  most  wonderful,  most  dazzling 

delineation. 

I  am  not  here  the  apologist  of  Cleopatra's  historical  character, 
nor  of  such  women  as  resemble  her;  I  am  considering  her  merely 
as  a  dramatic  portrait  of  astonishing  beauty,  spirit,  and  originality. 
She  has  furnished  the  subject  of  two  Latin,  sixteen  French,  six 
English,  and  at  least  four  Italian  tragedies;*  yet  Shakspeare  alone 
has"  availed  himself  of  all  the  interest  of  the  story,  without 
falsifying  the  character.  He  alone  has  dared  to  exhibit  the  Egyptian 
queen  with  all  her  greatness  and  all  her  littleness-all  her  frailties 
of  temper— all  her  paltry  acts  and  dissolute  passions— yet  preserved 
the  dramatic  propriety  and  poetical  coloring  of  the  character,  and 
awakened  our  pity  for  fallen  grandeur,  without  once  beguiling  us 
into  sympathy  with  guilt  and  error.  Corneille  has  represented 
Cleopatra   as   a  model  of    chaste   propriety,  magnanimity,  constancy, 

*The  Cleopatra  of  Jodelle  was  the  first  regular  French  tragedy:  the  last  French 
tragedy  on  the  same  subject  was  the  Cleopatre  of  Marmontel.  For  the  representation 
of  this  tragedy,  Vaucanson,  the  celebrated  French  mechanist,  invented  an  automaton 
asp,  which  crawled  and  hissed  to  the  lifc-to  the  great  delight  of  the  Par.s.ans. 
But  it  appears  that  neither  Vaucanson's  asp.  nor  Clairon.  could  save  Cleopatre  from 
a  deserved  fate.  Of  the  English  tragedies,  one  was  written  by  the  Countess  of 
Pembroke,  the  sister  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney;  and  is.  I  believe,  the  nrst  instance  .n 
our  lan-uage  of  original  dramatic  writing,  by  a  female. 

30 


234  CLEOPATRA. 

and  every  female  virtue;  and  the  effect  is  almost  ludicrous.  In  our 
own  lano-uan"e,  we  have  two  very  fine  tragedies  on  the  story  of 
Cleopatra :  in  that  of  Dryden,  which  is  in  truth  a  noble  poem,  and 
which  he  himself  considered  his  master-piece,  Cleopatra  is  a  mere 
common-place  "  all  for  love"  heroine,  full  of  constancy  and  fine 
sentiments       For   instance  : — 

My  love's  so  true, 
That  I  can  neither  hide  it  where  it  is, 
Nor  show  it  where  it  is  not.    Nature  meant  me 
A  wife — a  silly,  harmless,  household  dove. 
Fond  without  art,  and  kind  without  deceit. 
But  Fortune,  that  has  made  a  mistress  of  me, 
Has  thrust  me  out  to  the  wild  world,  unfurnished 
Of  falsehood  to  be  happy. 

Is  this  Antony's  Cleopatra — the  Circe  of  the  Nile — the  Venus  of 
the   Cydnus?      She  never  uttered  anything   half  so  mawkish   in  her 

life. 

In  Fletcher's  "  False  One,"  Cleopatra  is  represented  at  an  earlier 
period  of  her  history :  and  to  give  an  idea  of  the  aspect  under 
which  the  character  is  exhibited  (and  it  does  not  vary  throughout 
the  play),  I  shall  give  one  scene ;  if  it  be  considered  out  of  place, 
its  extreme  beauty  w'ill  form  its  best   apology. 

Ptolomy  and  his  council  having  exhibited  to  Caesar  all  the 
royal  treasures  in  Egypt,  he  is  so  astonished  and  dazzled  at 
the  view  of  the  accumulated  wealth,  that  he  forgets  the  presence 
of  Cleopatra,  and  treats  her  with  negligence.  The  following 
scene  between  her  and  her  sister  Arsinoe  occurs  immediately 
afterwards. 

ARSINOE. 

You're  so  impatient ! 

CLEOPATRA. 

Have  I  not  cause  ? 
Women  of  common  beauties  and  low  births. 
When  they  are  slighted  are  allowed  their  angers — 


CLEOPATRA.  235 

Why  should  not  I.  a  princess,  make  him  know 
The  baseness  of  his  usage  ? 


Yes,  'tis  fit : 
But  then  again  j-ou  know  what  man 

CLEOPATRA. 

He's  no  man  1 
The  shadow  of  a  greatness  hangs  upon  him, 
And  not  the  virtue;  he  is  no  conqueror, 
Has  suffered  under  the  base  dross  of  nature; 
Poorly  delivered  up  his  power  to  wealth. 
The  god  of  bed-rid  men  taught  his  eyes  treason; 
Agamst  the  truth  of  love  he  has  rais'd  rebellion- 
Defied  his  holy  flames, 

Eli  OS. 

He  will  fall  back  again, 
And  satisfy  your  grace. 

CLEOPATIIA. 

Had  I  been  old. 
Or  blasted  in  my  bud,  he  might  have  show'd 
Some  shadow  of  dislike:  but,  to  prefer 
The  lustre  of  a  little  trash,  Arsinoe, 
And  the  poor  glow-worm  light  of  some  faint  jewels 
Before  the  light  of  love,  and  soul  of  beauty— 
O  how  it  vexes  me  !     He  is  no  soldier : 
All  honorable  soldiers  are  Love's  servants. 
He  is  a  merchant,  a  mere  wandering  merchant, 
Servile  to  gain ;  he  trades  for  poor  commodities. 
And  makes  his  conquests,  thefts!     Some  fortunate  captains 
That  quarter  with  him,  and  arc  truly  valiant. 
Have  flung  the  name  of  "  Happy  Caisar"  on  him ; 
Himself  ne'er  won  it.    He  's  so  base  and   covetous, 
He'll  sell  his  sword  for  gold. 

AKSINOE. 

This  is  too  bitter. 


2''^«  C  L  E.  O  1'  A  T  n  A  . 

CLKOl'ATKA. 

0  I   could   curise  myself,  that  was   so  foolish, 
So  fondly  childish,  to  believe  his  tongue — 

His  promising  tongue — ere  I  could  catch  his  temper. 

1  'd  trasli  enough  to  liave  cloy'd  his   eyes   withal 
(His  covetous  eyes),  such  as  I  scorn  to  tread  on, 
Richer  than  e'er  lie  saw  yet,  and  more  tempting ; 

Had  I  known  he  'd    stoop'd  at  that,  I  'd  sav'd  mine  honor- 

I  h:id  been  happy  still !     But  let  him  take   it. 

And  let  him  brag  how  poorly  I  'm  rewarded ; 

Let  him  go  conquer  still  weak  wretched  ladies ; 

Love  has  his  angry  quiver  too,  his  deadly, 

And  wiien  he  finds  scorn,  armed  at  the  strongest— 

I  am  a  fool  to  fret  thus  for  a  fool, — 

An  old  blind   fool  too!     I  lose   my  health;  I  will  not, 

I  will  not  cry ;  I  will  not  honor  him 

With  tears  diviner  than  the  gods  he  worships; 

I  will  not  take  the  pains  to  curse  a    poor  thing. 


K.NOS. 

Do  not;  you  shall  not  need. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Would  I  were  prisoner 
To  one  I  hate,  that  I  might  anger  him  ! 
I  will  love  any  man  to  break  the  heart  of  liim! 
Any  that  has  the  heart  and  will  to  kill  him ! 

Ausixor,. 
Take  some  fair  truce. 

CLEOPATIiA, 

I  will  go  study  mischief. 
And  put  a  look  on,  arm'd  vath  all  my  cunnings, 
Shall  meet  him  like  a  basilisk,  and  strike  him. 
Love !   put  destroying  flame  into  mine  eyes, 
Into  my  smiles  deceits,  that  I  may  torture  him — 
That  I  may  make  him  love  to  death,  and  laugh  at  liim : 


CLEOPATRA. 

Enter  Afollodorus. 

ATOLLODORUb. 

Cfesar  commends  his  service  to  your  grace. 

CLEOFATKA. 

His  service  ?    What 's  his  service  ? 

ENOS. 

Pray  you  be  patient: 
The  noble  Csesar  loves  still. 

CLEOPATRA. 

What's   his  will? 

AFOLLODORUS. 

He  craves  access  unto  your  highness. 

CLEOPATRA. 

No ; — 
Sny  no !  I  will  have  none  to  trouble    me. 

ARSreOE. 

Good  sister! — 

CLEOPATRA. 

None,  I  say ;  I  will  be  private. 
Would  thou  hadst  flung  me  into  Nilus,  keeper, 
When  first  thou  gav'st  consent  to  bring  my  body 
To  this  unthankful  Caisar ! 

iVPOLLODORUS. 

'Twas  your  will,  madam. 
Nay  more,  your  charge  upon  me,  as  I  honor'd  you. 
Yon  know  what  danger  I  enJurM. 


■•2.' 


238  CLEOPATRA. 

CLEOFATKA. 

Take  this  {giving  a  jewel), 
And  carry  it  to  that  lordly  Ceesar  sent  thee ; 
There  's  a  new  love,  a  handsome  one,  a  rich  one, — 
One  that  will  hug  his  mind :  bid  him  make   love  to  it ; 
Tell  the  ambitious  broker  this  will  suffer 

Enter  C^sar. 

APOLLODORUS. 

He  enters. 

CLEOPATRA. 

How! 


I  do  not  use  to  wait,  lady ; 
Where  I  am,  all  the  doors  are  tree  and  open. 

CLEOPATRA. 

I  guess  so  by  your  rudeness. 


You're  not  angry  ? 
Things  of  your  tender  mould  should   be  most  gentle. 
Why  should  you  frown  ?     Good  gods,  what  a  set  anger 
Have  you  forc'd  into  your  face  ?     Come,  I  must  temper  you. 
What  a  coy  smile  was  there,  and  a  disdainful ! 
How  like  an  ominous  flash  it  broke  out  from  you ! 
Defend  me,  love !    Sweet,  who  has  anger'd  you  ? 

CLEOPATRA. 

Show  him  a  glass !     That  false  face  has  betray'd  me — 
That  base  heart  wrong'd  me ! 

CiESAR. 

Be  more  sweetly  angry. 


I  wrong'd  you,  fair  ? 


CLEOPATRA.  239 

CLEOPATEA. 

Away  with  your  foul  flatteries ; 
They  are  too  gross  !     But  that  I  dare  be  angry, 
And  with  as  great  a  god  as  Caesar  is, 
To  show  how  poorly  I  respect  his  memory, 
I  would  not  speak  to  yon. 


Pray  you,  undo  tliis  riddle, 
And  tell  rne  how  I  've  vex'd  you. 

CLEOPATRA. 

Let  me  think  first, 
Whether  I  may  put  on  a  patience 
That  will  with  honor  suffer  me.     Know  I  hate  you  ; 
Let  that  begin  the  story.     Now  I'll  tell  you. 


But  do  it  mildly :  in  a  noble  lady, 

Softness  of  spirit,  and  a  sober  nature, 

That  moves  like  summer  winds,  cool,  and  blows  sweetness, 

Shows  blessed,  like  herself. 

CLEOPATRA. 

And  that  great  blessedness 
You  first  reap'd  of  me ;  till  you  taught  my  nature, 
Like  a  rude  storm,  to  talk  aloud  and  tliunder. 
Sleep  was  not  gentler  than  my  soul,  and  stiller. 
You  had  the  spring  of  my  aflbctions. 
And  my  fair  fruits  I  gave  you  leave  to  taste  of; 
You  must  expect  the  winter  of  mine  anger. 
You  flung  me  off— before  the  court  disgraced  mc — 
When  in  the  pride  I  appear'd  of  all  my  beauty — 
Appear'd  your  mistress ;  took  unto  your  eyes 
The  common  strumpet,  love  of  hated  lucre, — 
Courted  witli  covetous  heart  the  slave  of  nature, — 
Gave  all  your  thoughts  to  gold,  that  men  of  glory, 
And  minds  adorn'd  with  noble  love,  would  kick  at! 
Soldiers  of  royal  mark  scorn  such  base  purchase; 
Beauty  and  honor  are  the  marks  they  slioot  :it. 


2  iO  C  L  i:  O  P  A  T  11  A  . 

I  spake  to  you  then,  I  courted  you,  and  woo'd  you 
Called  you  dear  Caesar,  hung  about   you  tenderly, 
Was  proud  to  appear  your  I'ricnd — 

CJESAR. 

You  have  mistaken  ma 

CLEOPATEA. 

But  neither  eye,  nor  favor,  not  a  smile 

Was  I  blessed  back  withal,  but  shook  ofT  rudely  ; 

And  as  you  had  been  sold  to  sordid  infamy, 

You  fell  before  the  images  of  treasure, 

And  in  your  soul  you  worshipp'd.     I  stood  slighted, 

Forgotten,  and  contemned :  my  soft  embraces, 

And  those  sweet  kisses  which  you  call'd  Elysium, 

As  letters  writ  in  sand,  no  more  remember'd ; 

The  name  and  glory  of  your  Cleopatra 

Laugh'd  at,  and  made  a  story  to  your  captains ! 

Shall  I  endure  ? 


You  are  deceived  in  all  this ; 
Upon  my  life  you  are;  'tis  your  much  tenderness. 

CLEOPATRA. 

No,  no ;  I  love  not  that  way ;  you  are  cozen'd ; 
I  love  with  as  much  ambition  as  a  conqueror. 
And  where  I  love  will  triumph  ! 

C^SAR. 

So  you  shall : 
JMy  heart  shall  be  the  chariot  that  shall  bear  you: 
All  i  have  won  shall  wait  upon  you      By  the  gods, 
The  bravery  of  this  woman's  mind  has  fir'd  me ! 
Dear  mistress,  shall  I  but  this  once 

CLEOPATRA. 

How!  Ca;sar! 
Have  I  let  slip  a  second  vanity 
That  gives  tlieo  hope  ? 


CLEOPATRA.  ^41 


CJESAB.. 

You  shall  be  absolute, 
And  reign  alone  as  queen;  you  shall  be  anything. 

CLEOPATRA. 

♦  *  *  '  * 

FarewoM,  uiithankt'ul  I 
C-ESAR. 

Stay! 

CLEOPATRA. 

1  will  not. 

C^SAR. 

I  command. 

CLEOPATRA. 


Command,  and  go  without,  sir, 

I  do  command  thee  be  my  slave  for  ever, 

And  vex,  while  I  laugh  at  thee ! 


Thus  low,  beauty- 


C-iESAR. 

\He  kneels. 


CLEOPATRA. 

It  is  too  late ;  when  I  have  found  thee  absolute, 

The  man  that  fame  reports  thee,  and  to   me. 

May  be  I  shall  think  better.    Farewell,  conqueror  !  (.Exit.) 

Now  this  is  magnificent  poetry,  but  this  is  not  Cleopatra,  this  is 
not  « the  gipsy  queen."  The  sentiment  here  is  too  profound,  the 
miesty  too'rJal,\ncl  too  lofty.  Cleopatra  could  he  great  hy  s 
and  starts,  but  never  sustained  her  dignity  upon  so  h.gh  a  tone  fo 
ten  minutes  together.  The  Cleopatra  of  Fletcher  remmds  us  of  the 
antique  colossal  statue  of  her  in  the  Vatican,  all  grancleur  a.d  grace 
Cleopatra  in  Dryden's  tragedy  is  like  Guido's  dymg  Cleopatra  m  the 
Pitti  palace,  tenderly  beautiful.     Shakspeare's   Cleopatra    is   like    one 


242  CLEOPATRA. 

of  those  graceful  and  fantastic  pieces  of  antique  Arabesque,  in  which 
all  anomalous  shapes  and  impossible  and  wild  combinations  of  form 
are  woven  together  in  regular  confusion  and  most  harmonious 
discord :  and  such,  we  have  reason  to  believe,  was  the  living  woman 
herself,  when  she  existed  upon  this  earth 


OCTAV  I  A. 


I  ro  not  understand  the  observation  of  a  late  critic,  that  in 
this  play  "  Octavia  is  only  a  dull  foil  to  Cleopatra."  Cleopatra 
requires  no  foil,  and  Octavia  is  not  dull,  though,  in  a  moment  of 
jealous  spleen,  her  accomplished  rival  gives  her  that  epithet.*  It  is 
possible  that  her  beautiful  character,  if  brought  more  forward  and 
colored  up  to  the  historic  portrait,  would  still  be  eclipsed  by  the 
dazzling  splendor  of  Cleopatra's;  for  so  I  have  seen  a  flight  of 
fireworks  blot  out  for  a  while  the  silver  moon  and  ever  burning 
stars.  But  here  the  subject  of  the  drama  being  the  love  of  Antony 
and  Cleopatra,  Octavia  is  very  properly  kept  in  the  back  ground, 
and  far  from  any  competition  with  her  rival :  the  interest  would 
otherwise  have  been  unpleasantly  divided,  or  rather  Cleopatra  herself 
must  have  served  but  as  a  foil  to  the  tender,  virtuous,  dignified,  and 
generous  Octavia,  the  very  beau  ideal  of  a  noble  Roman  lady : — 

Admired  Octavia,  whose  beauty  claims 
No  worse  a  husband  than  the  best  of  men ; 
Whose  virtue  and  whose  general  graces  speak 
That  which  none  else  can  utter. 

Dryden  has  committed   a   great    mistake    in    bringing   Octavia  and 
her  children  on  the  scene,  and  in  immediate   contact   with  Cleopatra. 


•  "  The  sober  eye  of  dull  Octavia.  " — Act  v.,  scene  2. 


244  O  C  T  A  V  I  A  . 

To  liave  thus  violated  the  truth  of  history*  might  have  been 
excusable,  but  to  sacrifice  the  truth  of  nature  and  dramatic  propriety, 
to  produce  a  mere  stage  effect,  was  unpardonable.  In  order  to 
preserve  the  unity  of  interest,  he  has  falsified  the  character  of 
Octavia  as  well  as  that  of  Cleopatra :  f  he  has  presented  us  with  a 
regular  scolding  match  between  the  rivals,  in  which  they  come 
sweeping  up  to  each  other  from  opposite  sides  of  the  stage,  with 
their  respective  trains,  like  two  pea-hens  in  a  passion.  Shakspeare 
would  no  more  have  brought  his  captivating,  brilliant,  but  meretricious 
Cleopatra  into  immediate  comparison  with  the  noble  and  chaste 
simplicity  of  Octavia,  than  a  connoisseur  in  art  would  have  placed 
Canova's  Dansatrice,  beautiful  as  it  is,  beside  the  Athenian 
Melpomene,  or  the  Vestal  of  the  Capitol. 

The  character  of  Octavia  is  merely  indicated  m  a  few  touches,  but 
every  stroke  tells.  We  see  her  with  "  downcast  eyes  sedate  and 
sweet,  and  looks  demure," — wi>th  her  modest  tenderness  and  dignified 
submission — the  very  antipodes  of  her  rival !  Nor  should  we  forget 
that  she  has  furnished  one  of  the  most  graceful  similes  in  the  whole 
compass  of  poetry,  where  her  soft  equanimity  in  the  midst  of  grief 
is  compared  to 

The  swan's  down  leather 
That  stands  upon  the  swell  at  flood  of  tide, 
And  neither  way  inclines. 

The  fear  which  seems  to  haunt  the  mind  of  Cleopatra,  lest  she 
should  be  "chastised   by  the    sober    eye"  of    Octavia,  is    exceedingly 


*  Octavia  was  never  in  Egypt. 

t "  The  Octavia  of  Dryden  is  a  much  more  important  personage  than  in  the 
Antony  and  Cleopatra  of  Shakspeare.  She  is,  however,  more  cold  and  unamiable, . 
for  in  the  very  short  scenes  in  which  the  Octavia  of  Shakspeare  is  introduced,  she 
is  placed  in  rather  an  interesting  point  of  view.  But  Dryden  has  himself  informed 
us  that  he  was  apprehensive  that  the  justice  of  a  wife's  claim  would  draw  the 
audience  to  her  side,  and  lessen  their  interest  in  the  lover  and  the  mistress.  He 
seems  accordingly  to  have  studiously  lowered  the  character  of  the  injured  Octavia, 
who,  in  her  conduct  to  her  husband,  shows  much  duty  and  little  love.  "  Sir  W. 
Scott  (in  the  same  fine  piece  of  criticism  prefixed  to  Dryden's  All  for  Love)  gives 
the  preference  to  Shakspeare's  Cleopatra. 


O  C  T  A  V  I  A  .  245 

characteristic  of  the  two  women :  it  betrays  the  jealous  pride  of 
her,  who  was  conscious  that  she  had  forfeited  all  real  claim  to 
respect ;  and  it  places  Octavia  before  us  in  all  the  majesty  of  that 
virtue  which  could  strike  a  kind  of  envying  and  remorseful  awe  even 
into  the  bosom  of  Cleopatra.  What  would  she  have  thought  and 
felt,  had  some  soothsayer  foretold  to  her  the  fate  of  her  own  children, 
whom  she  so  tenderly  loved  ?  Captives,  and  exposed  to  the  rage  of 
the  Roman  populace,  they  owed  their  existence  to  the  generous, 
admirable  Octavia,  in  whose  mind  there  entered  no  particle  of 
littleness.  She  received  into  her  house  the  children  of  Antony  and 
Cleopatra,  educated  them  with  her  own,  treated  them  with  truly 
maternal  tenderness,  and  married  them  nobly. 

Lastly,  to  complete   the    contrast,  the    death  of  Octavia   should    be 
put  in  comparison  with  that  of  Cleopatra 

After  spending  several  years  m  dignified  retirement,  respected  as 
the  sister  of  Augustus,  but  more  for  her  own  virtues,  Octavia  lost 
her  eldest  son  Marcellus,  who  was  expressively  called  the  "  Hope  of 
Rome."  Her  fortitude  gave  way  under  this  blow,  and  she  fell  into 
a  deep  melancholy,  which  gradually  wasted  her  health.  While  she 
was  thus  declining  into  death,  occurred  that  beautiful  scene,  v.-hich 
has  never  yet^  I  believe,  been  made  the  subject  of  a  picture,  but 
should  certainly  be  added  to  my  gallery  (if  I  had  one),  and  I  would 
hang  it  opoosite  to  the  dying  Cleopatra.  Virgil  was  commanded  by 
Augustus  to  read  aloud  to  his  sister,  that  book  of  the  Eneid  in  which 
he  had  commemorated  the  virtues  and  early  death  of  the  young 
Marcellus.     When  he  came  to  the  lines — 


This  youth,  the  blissful  vision  of  a  day, 

Shall  just  be  shown  on  earth,  then  snatched  away,  &c. 


the  mother  covered  her  face,  and  burst  into  tears.  But  when  Virgil 
mentioned  her  son  by  name  ("Tu  Marcellus  eris"),  which  he  had 
artfully  deferred  till  the  concluding  lines,  Octavia,  unable  to  control 
her  agitation,  fainted  away.  She  afterwards,  with  a  magnificent 
spirit,  ordered  tlie  poet  a  gratuity  of  ten  thousand  sesterces    for  each 


246  O  C  T  A  V  I  A 


line  of  the  panegyric*  It  is  probable  that  the  agitation  she  suffered 
on  this  occasion  hastened  the  effects  of  her  disorder ;  for  she  died 
soon  after  (of  grief,  says  the  historian),  having  survived  Antony 
about  twenty  years. 


*  In  all,  about  two  thousand  pounds 


V  0  L  TJ  M  N  I  A  . 


OcTAViA,  however,  is  only  a  beautiful  sketch,  while  in  Voluinnia, 
Shakspeare  has  given  us  the  portrait  of  a  Roman  matron,  conceived 
in  the  true  antique  spirit,  and  finished  in  every  part.  Although 
Coriolanus  is  the  hero  of  the  play,  yet  much  of  the  interest  of 
the  action  and  the  final  catastrophe  turn  upon  the  character  of 
his  mother,  Volumnia,  and  the  power  she  exercised  over  his  mind, 
by  which,  according  to  the  story,  "  she  saved  Rome  and  lost  her 
son. "  Her  lofty  patriotism,  her  patrician  haughtiness,  her  maternal 
pride,  her  eloquence,  and  her  towering  spirit,  are  exhibited  with 
the  utmost  power  of  effect;  yet  the  truth  of  female  nature  is 
beautifully  preserved,  and  the  portrait,  with  all  its  vigor,  is  without 
harshness. 

I  shall  begin  by  illustrating  the  relative  position  and  feelings  of 
the  mother  and  son ;  as  these  are  of  the  greatest  importance  in 
the  action  of  the  drama,  and  consequently  most  prominent  in  the- 
characters.  Though  Volumnia  is  a  Roman  matron,  and  though 
her  country  owes  its  salvation  to  her,  it  is  clear  that  her  maternal 
pride  and  affection  are  stronger  even  than  her  patriotism.  Thus 
when  her  son  is  exiled,  she  bursts  into  an  imprecation  against 
Rome   and   its  citizens : — 


Now  the  red  pestilence  strike  all  trades  in  Rome, 
And  occupations  perish ! 


248  V  O  L  U  -AI  N  I  A  . 

Here  we  hare  the  impulses  of  individual  and  feminine  nature, 
overpowering  all  national  and  habitual  influences.  Volumnia  would 
never  have  exclaimed  like  the  Spartan  mother,  of  her  dead  son, 
"  Sparta  has  many  others  as  brave  as  he ; "  but  in  a  far  different 
spirit  she  says  to  the  Romans, — 


Ere  you  go,  hear  this ; 
As  far  as  doth  the  Capitol  exceed 
The  meanest  house  in  Rome,  so  far  my  son, 
AVliom  you  have  banished,  does  exceed  you  all. 


In  the  very  first  scene,  and  before  the  introduction  of  the 
principal  personages,  one  citizen  observes  to  another,  that  the 
military  exploits  of  Marcius  were  performed,  not  so  much  for  his 
country's  sake  "  as  to  please  his  mother. "  By  this  admirable  stroke 
of  art,  introduced  with  such  simplicity  of  effect,  our  attention  is 
aroused,  and  we  are  prepared  in  the  very  outset  of  the  piece  for  the 
important  part  assigned  to  Volumnia,  and  for  her  share  in  producing 
the  catastrophe. 

In  the  first  act  we  have  a  very  graceful  scene,  in  which  the  two 
Roman  ladies,  the  wife  and  mother  of  Coriolanus,  are  discovered 
at  their  needle-work,  conversing  on  his  absence  and  danger,  and  are 
visited  by  Valeria : — 


The  noble  sister  of  Publicola, 
The  moon  of  Rome ;  chaste  as  the  icicle. 
That's  curded  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow, 
And  hangs  on  Dian's  temple ! 


Over  this  little  scene  Shakspeare,  without  any  display  of  learning, 
has  breathed  the  very  spirit  of  classical  antiquity.  The  haughty 
temper  of  Volumnia,  her  admiration  of  the  valor  and  high  bearing  of 
her  son,  and  her  proud  but  unselfish  love  for  him,  are  finely  contrasted 
with  the  modest  sweetness,  the  conjugal  tenderness,  and  the  fond 
solicitude  of  his  wife  Virgilia. 


V  O  L  U  M  N  I  A  .  249 


When  yet  he  was  but  tender-bodied,  and  the  only  son  of  my  womb;  when 
yonth  with  comeliness  pluck'd  all  gaze  his  way;  when,  for  a  day  of  kings' 
entreaties,  a  mother  should  not  sell  him  an  hour  from  her  beholding ;  I, — 
considering  how  honor  would  bocome  such  a  person ;  that  it  was  no  better 
than  picture-like  to  hang  by  the  wall,  if  renown  made  it  not  stir, — was  pleased 
to  let  him  seek  danger  where  he  was  like  to  find  fame.  To  a  cruel  war  I 
Bent  him,  from  whence  he  returned,  his  brows  bound  with  oak.  I  tell  thee, 
daughter — I  sprang  not  more  in  joy  at  first  hearing  he  was  a  man-child,  than 
now  in   first  seeing  he  had  proved   himself   a  man. 

VIRGILIA. 

But  had  he   died   in  the   business,   madam  ?  how   then  ? 

VOLTJMNIA. 

Then  his  good '  report  should  have  been  my  son ;  I  therein  would  have 
found  issue.  Hero  me  profess  sincerely  :  had  I  a  dozen  sons,  each  in  my  love 
alike,  and  none  less  dear  than  thine  and  my  good  Marcius,  I  had  rather  had 
eleven   die  nobly  for  their   country,   than   one   voluptuously  surfeit  out  of  action. 

Enter  a  Gentlewoman. 
Madam,  the  lady  Valeria  is  come   to  visit  you. 

VIRGILIA. 

Beseech  you,  give  me  leave  to  retire  myself. 

VOLUMNIA. 

Indeed  you  shall  not. 

Methinks  I  hear  hither  your  husband's  drum : 

See  him  pluck  Aufidius  down  by  the  hair : 

As  children  from  a  bear,  the  Voices  shunning  him; 

Methinks  I  see  him  stamp  thus,  and  call  thus — 

"  Come  on,  you  cowards  !  you  were  got  in  fear, 

Though  you  wore  born  in  Rome."     His  bloody  brow 

With  his  mail'd  hand  then  wiping,  forth  he  goes  ; 

Like  to  a  harvest-man,  that  's  task'd  to  mow 

Or  all,  or  lose  his  hire. 


His  bloody   brow  !    O  Jupiter,  no  blood ! 
22 


J250  V  O  L  U  1\I  N  I  A  . 

VOLTJMNIA. 

Away,  you  fool !  it  more  becomes  a  man 

Than  gilt  his  trophy.     The  breasts  of  Hecuba, 

Wlien  she  did  suckle  Hector,  look'd  not  lovelier 

Than  Hector's  forehead,  when  it  spit  forth  blood 

At  Grecian  swords  contending.     Tell  Valeria 

We  are  fit  to  bid  her  welcome.  [ExU  Gen/. 

\^RGILIA. 

Heavens  bless  my  lord  from  fell  Aufirfias 

He'll  beat  AufiJius's  head  below  his  knee, 
And  tread  upon  his  neck ! 

This  distinction  betAveen  the  two  females  is  as  interesting  and 
beautiful  as  it  is  well  sustained.  Thus  when  the  victory  of 
Coriolanus  is  proclaimed,  Menenius   asks,  "  Is  he  wounded  1" 

VIRGILIA. 

O  no,  no,  no  I 

VOLUMNIA. 

Yes,  he  is  wounded — I  thank  the  gods  for  it! 

And  when  he  returns  victorious  from  the  wars,  his  high-spirited 
mother  receives  him  with  blessings  and  applause — his  gentle  w^ife 
with   "  gracious   silence "    and  wnth   tears. 

The  resemblance  of  temper  in  the  mother  and  the  son,  modified 
as  it  is  by  the  difference  of  sex,  and  by  her  greater  age  and 
experience,  is  exhibited  wdth  admirable  truth.  Volumnia,  with  all 
her  pride  and  spirit,  has  some  prudence  and  self-command;  in  her 
language  and  deportment  all  is  matured  and  matronly.  The  dignified 
tone  of  authority  she  assumes  towards  her  son,  when  checking  his 
headlong  impetuosity,  her  respect  and  admiration  for  his  noble 
qualities,  and  her  strong  sympathy  even  with  the  feelings  she 
combats,  are  all  displayed  in  the  scene  in  which  she  prevails  on 
him   to   soothe   the   incensed   plebeians. 


V  O  L  U  M  N  I  A  . 

VOLUMNIA. 

Pray  be  coynsell'd: 
I  have  a  heart  as  little  apt  as  yours, 
But  yet  a  brain  that  leads  my  use  of  anger 
To  better  vantage. 

MEKENTUS. 

Well  said,  noble  woman  : 
Before  he  should  thus  stoop  to  the  herd,  but  that 
The  violent  fit  o'  the  time  craves  it  as  physic 
For  the  whole  state,  I  would  put  mine   armor  on, 
Which  I  can  scarcely  bear. 

CORIOLANUS. 

What  must  I  do? 

MENENIUS. 

Return  to  the  tribunes. 

CORIOLANUS. 

Well. 
What  then  ?  what  then  ? 

MENENIUS. 

Repent  what  you  have  spoken. 

CORIOLANUS. 

For  them?    I  cannot  do  it  to  the  gods: 
Must  I  then  do 't  to  them  ? 

VOLUMNIA. 

You  are  too  absolute ; 
Though  therein  you  can  never  be  too  noble, 
But  when  extremities  speak. 

I  pr'ythee  now,  my  son, 
Go  to  them  with  this  bonnet  in  thy  hand  ; 
And  thus  far  having  stretch'd  it  (here  be  with  them), 


251 


252  V  O  L  U  M  N  I  A  . 

Thy   knee  bussing  the   stones  (for  in  such  business 
Action   is   eloquent,   and  the  eyes  of  the  ignorant 
]More   learned  than  the   ears),  waving  thy  head, 
Which  often,  tlius,  correcting  thy  stout  heart. 
Now   humble,   as  the  ripest   mulberry, 
Tliat  will  not   hold  the   handhng.     Or,   say   to   them, 
Thou  art   their   soldier,  and   being   bred    in   broils 
Hast  not  the   soft  way  which,  thou  dost  confess, 
V/ere   fit  for  thee  to  use,   as  they  to  claim. 
In  asking  their  good   loves ;   but  thou   wilt   frame 
Thyself,   forsooth,   hereafter  theirs,  so  far 
As  thou   hast  power  and  person. 

MEXENIUS. 

This  but  done. 
Even  as   she   speaks,   why  all  their   hearts   were  yours; 
For  they   have  pardons,  being  asked,  as   free 
As   words  to  little  purpose. 

VOLU.MMA. 

Pr'ythee   now. 
Go,   and  be   rul'd :   although   I  know  thou    hadst  rather 
Follow  thine  enemy   in  a  fiery   gulf 
Than  flatter  him   in   a  bower. 

MENENIUS. 

Only  fair   speech. 

co:minius. 

I  think   'twill    serve,   if  he 
Can   tliereto  frame   his   spirit. 


He  must,  and  will : 
Pr'ythee,  now   say  you   will,  and   go   about  it. 

CORIOLANUS. 

Must  T  go  show  them  my  unbarb'd  sconce  ?     Must  J 
Witli  my  base  tongue  give  to  my  noble  heart 
A  lie,  that  it  must  bear  ?     Well,  I  will  do  't ; 


V  O  L  U  iM  N  I  A  .  253 

Yet  were  there  but  this  single  plot  to  lose, 
This  mould  of  Marcius,  they  to  dust  should  grind  it, 
And  throw  it  against  the  wind.     To  the  market-place! 
You  have  put  me  now  to  such  a  part,  which  never 
1  shall  discharge  to  the   life. 

VOLUMNIA. 

I  pr'ythee  now,  sweet  son,  as  thou  hast  said, 
My  praises  made  thee  first  a  soldier,  so 
To  have  my  praise  for  this,  perform  a  part 
Thou  hast  not  done  before. 

CORIOLANUS. 

Well,  I  must  do  't ; 
Away,  my  disposition,  and  possess  me 
Some  harlot's  spirit ! 

I  will  not  do  't : 
Lest  I  surcease  to  honor  mine  own  truth, 
And,  by  my  body's  action,  teach  my  mind 
A  most  inherent  baseness. 

VOLUMNIA. 

At  thy  choice,  then : 
To  beg  of  thee,  it  is  my  more  dishonor. 
Than  thou  of  them.     Come  all  to  ruin :  let 
Thy  mother  rather  feel  thy  pride,  than  fear 
Thy  dangerous  stoutness :  for  I  mock  at  death 
With  as  big  heart  as  thou.     Do  as  thou  list — 
Thy  valiantness  was  mine,  thou  suck'dst  it  from  me ; 
But  owe  thy  pride  thyself. 

CORIOLANUS. 

Pray  be  content; 
Mother,  I  am  going  to  the  market-place — 
Chide  me  no  more. 

"When    the  spirit   of    the    mother    and  the   son   are  brought    into 
immediate  collision,  he    yields  before  her;    the  warrior  who  stemmed 


2.J4  V  O  L  U  M  N  I  A  . 

alone  the  whole  city  of  Corioli,  who  was  ready  to  face  "the  steep 
Tarpeian  death,  or  at  wild  horses'  heels, — vagabond  exile — flaying  " 
rather  than  abate  one  jot  of  his  proud  will — shrinks  at  her  rebuke. 
The  haughty,  fiery,  overbearing  temperament  of  Coriolanus,  is 
drawn  in  such  forcible  and  striking  colors,  that  nothing  can  more 
impress  us  with  the  real  grandeur  and  power  of  Volumnia's 
character,  than  his  boundless  submission  to  her  will — his  more  than 
filial   tenderness   and   respect. 

You  gods  !  I  prate, 
And  the  most  noble  mother  of  the  world 
Leave  unsaluted.     Sink  my  knee  i'  the  earth — 
Of  thy  deep  duty  more  impression   show 
Than  that  of  common  sons ! 

When  his  mother  appears  before  him  as  a  suppliant,  he 
exclaims, — 

My  mother  bows ; 

As  if  Olympus  to  a  molehill  should 

In  supplication  nod. 

Here  the  expression  of  reverence,  and  the  magnificent  image  in 
which  it  is  clothed,  are  equally  characteristic  both  of  the  mother 
and  the   son. 

Her  aristocratic  haughtiness  is  a  strong  trait  in  Volumnia's 
manner  and  character,  and  her  supreme  contempt  for  the  plebeians, 
whether  they  are  to  be  defied  or  cajoled,  is  very  like  what  I 
have  heard  expressed  by  some  high-born  and  high-bred  women  of 
our  own   day. 

I  muse  my  mother 
Does  not  approve  me  further,  who  was  wont 
To  call  them  woollen  vassals ;  things  created 
To  buy  and  sell  with  groats ;  to  show  bare  heads 
In  congregations ;  to  yawn,  be  still,  and  wonder, 
WTien  one  but  of  iry  ordinance  stood  up 
To  speak  of  peace  or  war. 


V  O  L  U  M  N  I  A  .  2.^5 

And    Volumnia   reproaching   the  tribunes, — 

'Tvvas  you  incensed  the  rabble — 
Cats,  that  can  judge  as  fitly  of  his  worth, 
As  I  can  of  those  mysteries  which  Heaven 
Will  not  have  earth  to  know. 

There  is  all  the  Roman  spirit  in  her  exultation,  vvl-en  the  trumpets 
sound  the  return  of  Coriolanus. 

Hark !  the  trumpets  ! 
These  are  the  ushers  of  Marcius :  before  him 
He  carries  noise,  and  behind  him  he  leaves  tears. 

And  in  her  speech  to  the  gentle  Virgilia,  who  is  weeping  her 
husband's    banishment — 

Leave  this  faint  puling!  and  lament  as  I  do. 
In  anger — Juno-like  ! 

But  the  triumph  of  Volumnia's  character,  the  full  display  of  ah 
her  grandeur  of  soul,  her  patriotism,  her  strong  aifections,  and  her 
sublime  eloquence,  are  reserved  for  her  last  scene,  in  which  she 
pleads  for  the  safety  of  Rome,  and  wins  from  her  angry  son  that 
peace  which  all  the  swords  of  Italy  and  her  confederate  arms  could 
not  have  purchased.  The  strict  and  even  literal  adherence  to  the 
truth   of  history  is   an   additional   beauty. 

Her  famous  speech,  beginning  "  Should  we  be  silent  and  not 
speak,"  is  nearly  word  for  word  from  Plutarch,  with  some  additional 
graces  of  expression,  and  the  charm  of  metre  superadded.  I  shall 
give  the  last  lines  of  this  address,  as  illustrating  that  noble  and 
irresistible  eloquence  which  was  the  crowning  ornament  of  the 
character  One  exquisite  touch  of  nature,  which  is  distinguished 
by  italics,  was  beyond  the  rhetorician  and  historian,  and  belongs 
only  to   the  poet. 

Speak  to  me,  son  ; 
Thou  hast  affected  the  fine  Btrains  of  honor, 


256  V  U  L  U  M  N  I  A  . 

To  imitate  the  graces  of  the  gods ; 
To  tear  with  thunder  the  wide  cheeks  o'  the  air, 
And  yet  to  charge  thy  sulphur  with  a  bolt 
That  should  but  rive  an  oak.     Why  dost  not  speak? 
Think'st  thou  it  honorable  for  a  noble  man 
Still  to  remember  wrongs  ?     Daughter,  speak  you  : 
He  cares  not  for  your  weeping.     Speak  thou,  boy ; 
Perhaps  thy  childishness  may  move  him  more 
Than  can  our  reasons.     There  is  no  man  in  the  world 
More  bound  to  his  mother;  yet  here  he  lets  me  prate 
Like  one  i*  the  stocks.     Thou  hast  never  in  thy  life 
Show'd  thy  dear  mother  any  courtesy  ; 
When  she  (  poor  hen),  fond  of  no  second  brood. 
Has  cluck'd  thee  to  the  wais,  and  safely  home, 
Laden  tcilh  honor.     Say  my  request's  unjust, 
And  spurn  nie  back :  but,  if  it  be  not  so. 
Thou  art  not  honest,  and  the  gods  will  plague  thee 
That  thou  restrain'st  from  me  the  duty  which 
To  a  mother's  part  belongs.     He  turns  away: 
Down,  ladies:  let  us  shame  him  with  our  knees. 
To  his  surname  Coriolanus  'longs  more  pride, 
Than  pity  to  our  prayers ;  down,  and  end ; 
Tills  is  the  last ;  sq  will  we  home  to  Rome, 
And  die  among  our  neighbors.     Nay,  behold  us  ; 
This  boy,  that  cannot  tell  what  he  would  have, 
But  kneels,  and  holds  up  hands,  for  fellowship. 
Does  reason  our  petition  with  more  strengtli 
Than  thou   hast  to  deny  't.* 


'  The  corresponding  passage  in  the  old  English  Plutarch  runs  thus :— "  My  son, 
vi'hy  dost  thou  not  ans-wer  ine  .'  Dost  thou  think  it  good  altogether  to  give  place 
unto  thy  cholcr  and  revenge,  and  thinkest  thou  it  not  honesty  for  thee  to  grant  thy 
mother's  request  in  so  weighty  a  cause  ?  Dost  thou  take  it  honorable  for  a 
nobleman  to  remember  the  wrongs  and  injuries  done  him,  and  dost  not  in  like  case 
think  it  an  honest  nobleman's  part  to  be  thankful  for  the  goodness  that  parents  do 
show  to  their  children,  acknowledging  the  duty  and  reverence  they  ought  to  bear  unto 
them  .'  No  man  living  is  more  bound  to  show  himself  thankful  in  all  parts  and 
respects  than  thyself,  who  so  universally  showest  all  ingratitude.  Moreover,  my 
Eon,  thou  hast  sorely  taken  of  Ihy  country,  exacting  grievous  payments  upon  them 
in  revenge  of  the  injuries  offered  thee  ;  besides,  thou  hast  not  hitherto  showed  thy 
poor  mother  any  courtesy.  And,  therefore,  it  is  not  only  honest,  but  due  unto  me, 
ibat  without  compulsion  I  should  obtain  my  so  just  and  reasonable  request  cf  thc£ 


V  O  L  U  :\I  N  I  A  .  -Jol 

It  is  an  instance  of  Shakspeare's  line  judgment,  that  after  this 
magnificent  and  touching  piece  of  eloquence,  which  saved  Rome. 
Volumnia  should  speak  no  more,  for  she  could  say  nothing  that 
would  not  deteriorate  from  the  effect  thus  left  on  the  imagination. 
She  is  at  last  dismissed  from  our  admiring  gaze  amid  the  thimder  of 
grateful  acclamations — 

Behold  our  patroness, — the  life  of  Rome. 


But  since  by  reason  I  cannot  persuade  ye  to  it,  to  what  purpose  do  I  defer  my  last 
hope?"  And  with  these  words,  herself,  his  wife,  and  children,  fell  down  upon 
their  knees  before  him. 

33 


CONSTANCE. 


We  have  seen  that  in  the  mother  of  Coriolanus,  the  principal 
qualities  are  exceeding  pride,  self-will,  strong  maternal  affection, 
great  power  of  imagination,  and  energy  of  temper.  Precsely  he 
same  qualities  enter  into  the  mind  of  Constance  ol  Bretagne  :  hut 
in  her  these  qualities  are  so  differently  modified  hy  circumstances 
and  education,  that  not  even  in  fancy  do  we  think  of  institutmg  a 
comparison  between  the  gothic  grandeur  of  Constance,  and  the  more 
severe  and  classical  dignity  of  the  Roman  matron. 

The  scenes  and  circumstances  with  which  Shakspeare  has  surro.mded 
Constance    are    strictly    faithful    to    the    old    chronicles     and    are    as 
vividly  as  they  are  accurately  represented.     On   the    other   hand,  th 
hints    on   which    the    character    has    been    constructed    are    few    and 
vague;  but  the   portrait  harmonizes    so  wonderfully  with    ,.s  h.s.or.c 
back-ground,    and    with    all    that     later    researches   have    discovered 
relative  to  the  personal  adventures  of    Constance,  that  I  have  not  the 
slightest    doubt    of    its    individual    truth.     The    result    of  a    l,fe   ol 
strange  vicissitude;  the  picture  of  a  tameless  will,  and  h,gh  pass.ons 
for  ever  struggling  in  vain    against   a  superior    power:  and    the  real 
tuln  of  ;;me;    iu  those  chivalrous  times,   are   placed    before  us 
„  a  few  noble  scenes.     The  manner  in  which  Shakspeare  has  applied 
the    scattered    hints    of    history   to    the   formation   of  the    character 
reminds  us  of  that  magician  who  collected  the  mangled  limbs   which 
had   been   dispersed    up    an.l    down,  re-u„ited    them    into    the  human 


•200  C  O  N  S  T  A  N  C  E  . 

form,  and  re-animated  them  \vith  the    breathing    and    conscious   spirit 
of  life. 

Constance    of    Bretagne    ^vas    the    only    daughter    and    heiress    of 
Conan  IV.,  Duke  of  Bretagne ;  her  mother  was  Margaret  of  Scotland, 
the  eldest  daughter  of  ISIalcolm  IV. :  but    little   mention    is    made    of 
this  princess  in  the  old  histories ;  but  she  appears    to    have    inherited 
some    portion    of  the    talent   and    spirit    of  her    father,  and    to    have 
transmitted    them    to    her    daughter.      The    misfortunes   of    Constance 
may  be  said  to  have  commenced  before  her  birth,  and  took  their  rise 
in    the    misconduct    of    one    of    her    female    ancestors.      Her   great- 
grandmother  Matilda,  the    wife  of  Conan   III.,  was    distinguished    by 
her   beauty    and    imperious    temper,  and    not    less   by   her  gallantries. 
Her    husband,    not    thinking    proper    to    repudiate    her     during     his 
lifetime,  contented  himself  with  disinheriting  her  son  Hoel,  whom  he 
declared  illegitimate;  and    bequeathed    his  dukedom    to    his    daughter 
Bertha,  and    her    husband    Allan    the    Black,  Earl  of  Richmond,  who 
were  proclaimed  and  acknowledged  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Bretagne. 

Prince  Hoel,  so  far  from  acquiescing  in  his  father's  will,  immediately 

levied    an    army    to    maintain    his    rights,    and    a    civil    war    ensued 

between  the  brother  and    sister,  which    lasted    for  tvrelve    or    fourteen 

years.     Bertha,  whose  reputation  was    not    much    fairer    than    that  of 

her  mother  Matilda,  was  succeeded    by  her    son   Conan    IV. ;  he    was 

young,  and  of  a   feeble,  vacillating   temper,  and    after   struggling   for 

a    few   years    against   the    increasing    power    of  his   uncle  Hoel,    and 

his  own  rebellious    barons,  he  called  in  the   aid   of    that  politic  and 

ambitious  monarch,    Henry  II.   of  England.     This    fatal    step    decided 

the  fate  of  his  crown  and  his  posterity;  from  the  moment  the.  English 

set   foot   in   Bretagne,    that    miserable    coimtry   became     a    scene   of 

horrors    and    crimes — oppression     and    perfidy     on     the     one     hand, 

unavailing  struggles  on  the  other.     Ten  years  of  civil  discord  ensued, 

during  which   the     greatest    part    of     Bretagne    was    desolated,     and 

nearly    a    third     of     the    population     carried     off     by     famine     and 

pestilence.     In    the   end,    Conan    w^as    secured    in    the    possession    of 

his  throne  by  the  assistance  of  the  English  king,  who,  equally  subtle 

and  ambitious,  contrived  in  the  course  of  this  warfare  to  strip  Conan 

of  most  of  his  provinces  by  successive   treaties;  alienate   the    Breton 


C  O  N  S  T  A  N  C  E  .  261 

nobles  from   their    lawful   sovereign,  and    at    length   render   the  Duke 
himself  the  mere  vassal   of  his   power. 

In  the  midst  of  these  scenes  of  turbulence  and  bloodshed  was 
Constance  born,  in  the  year  1164.  The  English  king  consummated 
his  perfidious  scheme  of  policy,  by  seizing  on  the  person  of  the 
infant  princess,  before  she  was  three  years  old,  as  a  hostage  for  her 
father.  Afterwards,  by  contracting  her  in  marriage  to  his  third  son, 
Geoffrey  Plantagenet,  he  ensured,  as  he  thought,  the  possession  of 
the  duchy  of   Bretagne  to  his  own  posterity. 

From  this  time  we  hear  no  more  of  the  weak,  unhappy  Conan, 
■vrho,  retiring  from  a  fruitless  contest,  hid  himself  in  some  obscure 
retreat :  even  the  date  of  his  death  is  unknown.  Meanwhile  Henry 
openly  claimed  the  duchy  in  behalf  of  his  son  Geoflrey  and  the 
Lady  Constance ;  and  their  claims  not  being  immediately  acknowledged 
he  invaded  Bretagne  with  a  large  army,  laid  w^aste  the  country, 
bribed  or  forced  some  of  the  barons  into  submission,  murdered  oi 
imprisoned  others,  and,  by  the  most  treacherous  and  barbarous  policy, 
contrived  to  keep  possession  of  the  country  he  had  thus  seized. 
However,  in  order  to  satisfy  the  Bretons,  who  were  attached  to  th.' 
race  of  their  ancient  sovereigns,  and  to  give  some  color  to  his 
usurpation,  he  caused  Geoffrey  and  Constance  to  be  solemnly 
crowned  at  llennes,  as  Uuke  and  Duchess  of  Bretagne.  This  was  in 
the  year  11G9,  when  Constance  was  five,  and  Prince  Geoffrey  about 
eifht,  years  old.  His  father,  Henry,  continued  to  rule,  or  rather  to 
ravage  and  oppress,  the  country  in  their  name  for  about  fourteen 
years,  during  which  period  we  do  not  hear  of  Constance.  She 
appears  to  have  been  kept  in  a  species  of  constraint  as  a  hostage 
rather  than  a  sovereign  ;  while  her  husband  Geoffrey,  as  he  grew  up 
to  manhood,  was  too  much  engaged  in  keeping  the  Bretons  in  order, 
and  disputing  his  rights  with  his  father,  to  think  about  the  completion 
of  his  union  with  Constance,  although  his  sole  title  to  tlie  dukedom 
was  properly  and  legally  in  right  of  his  wife.  At  length,  in  1182, 
the  nuptials  were  formally  celebrated,  Constance  being  then  in  her 
nineteenth  year  At  the  same  time,  she  w'as  recognized  as  Duchess 
of  Bretagne  de  son  chef  (that  is,  in  her  own  right),  by  two  acts  of 
legislation,  which  are  still  preserved  among  the  records  of  Bretagne, 
and  bear  her  own  seal  and  signature. 


262  (;  O  X  S  T  A  X  C  E  . 

Those  domestic  t'euds  which  embittered  the  whole  life  of  Henry 
IL,  and  at  length  broke  his  heart,  are  well  known.  Of  all  his  sons, 
who  were  in  continual  rebellion  against  him,  Geofircy  was  the  most 
undutiful,  and  the  most  formidable :  he  had  all  the  pride  of  the 
Phmtagenets, — all  the  warlike  accomplishments  of  his  two  elder 
brothers,  Henry  and  Richard ;  and  was  the  only  one  who  could 
compete  with  his  father,  in  talent,  eloquence,  and  dissimulation. 
No  sooner  was  he  the  husband  of  Constance,  and  in  possession 
of  the  throne  of  Bretagne,  than  he  openly  opposed  his  father : 
in  other  words,  he  maintained  the  honor  and  interests  of  his  wife 
and  her  unhappy  country  against  the  cruelties  and  oppression  of 
the  English  plunderers.  *  About  three  years  after  his  marriage,  he 
was  invited  to  Paris  for  the  purpose  of  concluding  a  league, 
offensive  and  defensive,  with  the  French  king;  in  this  journey  he 
was  accompanied  by  the  Duchess  Constance,  and  they  w^ere 
received  and  entertained  with  royal  magnificence.  Geoffrey,  who 
excelled  in  all  chivalrous  accomplishments,  distinguished  himself  in 
the  tournaments  which  were  celebrated  on  the  occasion ;  but 
unfortunately,  after  an  encounter  with  a  French  knight,  celebrated 
f^^r  l.ij  prowess,  he  was  accidentally  flung  from  his  horse,  and 
trampled  to    death    in    the   lists  before   he   couVl   be   extricated. 

Constance  being  now  left  a  widow,  returned  to  Bretagne,  where 
her  barons  rallied  round  her  and  acknowledged  her  as  their  sovereign. 
The  Salique  law  did  not  prevail  in  Bretagne,  and  it  appears  that 
in  those  times  the  power  of  a  female  to  possess  and  transmit  the 
rights  of  sovereignty  had  been  recognized  in  several  instances ;  but 
Constance  is  the  fn-st  woman  who  exercised  those  rights  in  her 
own  person.  She  had  one  daughter,  Elinor,  born  in  the  second 
year  of  her  marriage,  and  a  few  months  after  her  husband's  death 
she  gave  birth  to  a  son.  The  states  of  Bretagne  were  filled  with 
exultation ;  they  required  that  the  infant  prince  should  not  bear 
the  name  of  his  father, — a  name  which  Constance,  in  fond 
remembrance  of  her  husband,  would  have  bestowed  on  him — still 
less  that  of  his  grandfather  Henry ;  but  that  of  Arthur,  the 
redoubted    hero    of    their    country,   whose    memory   was    worshipped 

*Vide    Dam,   Histoire  de   Bretagne 


CONSTANCE.  203 

by  the  populace.  Though  the  Arthur  of  romantic  and  fairy 
legends — the  Arthur  of  the  round  table,  had  been  dead  for  six 
centuries,  they  still  looked  for  his  second  appearance  among  them, 
according  to  the  prophecy  of  INIerlin ;  and  now,  with  fond  and 
short-sighted  enthusiasm,  fixed  their  hopes  on  the  young  Arthur  as 
one  destined  to  redeem  the  glory  and  independence  of  their 
oppressed  and  miserahle  country.  But  in  the  very  midst  of  the 
rejoicings  \vhich  succeeded  the  birth  of  the  prince,  his  grandfather, 
Henry  II.,  demanded  to  have  the  possession  and  guardianship  of 
his  person ;  and  on  the  spirited  refusal  of  Constance  to  yield  her 
son  into  his  power,  he  invaded  Bretagne  with  a  large  army ; 
plundering,  burning,  devastating  the  country  as  he  advanced,  he 
seized  Rennes,  the  capital:  and  having,  by  the  basest  treachery, 
obtained  possession  of  the  persons  both  of  the  youno-  duchess 
and  her  children,  he  married  Constance  forcibly  to  one  of  his  own 
favorite  adherents,  Randal  de  Blondeville,  Earl  of  Chester,  and 
conferred  on  him  the  duchy  of  Bretagne,  to  be  held  as  a  fief 
of  the   Engl.'sh  crown. 

The  Earl  of  Chester,  though  a  brave  knight,  and  one  of  the 
greatest  barons  of  England,  had  no  pretensions  to  so  hio-h  an 
alliance  ;  nor  did  he  possess  any  qualities  or  personal  accomplishments 
which  might  have  reconciled  Constance  to  him  as  a  husband.  He 
w^as  a  man  of  diminutive  stature  and  mean  appearance,  but  of 
haughty  and  ferocious  manners,  and  unbounded  ambition.  *  In  a 
conference  between  the  Earl  of  Chester  and  the  Eavl  of  Perche, 
in  Lincoln  cathedral,  the  latter  taunted  Randal  with  his  insignificant- 
person,  and  called  him  contemptuously  "  Dwarf. "  "  Sayst  thou 
so  !  "  replied  Randal ;  "  I  vow  to  God  and  our  Lady,  whose  church 
this  is,  that  ere  long  I  will  seem  to  thee  high  as  that  steeple!" 
He  was  as  good  as  his  w^ord,  when,  on  ascending  the  throne  of 
Brittany,   the   Earl  of  Perche   became   his   vassal. 

We  cannot  know  what  measures  were  used  to  force  this 
degradation  on  the  reluctant  and  high-spirited  Constance;  it  is 
only  certain  that  she  never  considered  her  marriage  in  the  light 
of  a   sacred    obligation,    and    that   she    took   the  first   opportunity   ot' 

•  Vide  Sir  Peter  Leycester's  Antiquities  of  Chester 


264  C  C)  N  8  T  A  N  C  E  . 

legally  breaking  from  a  chain  which  could  scarcely  be  considered 
as  legally  binding.  For  about  a  year  she  was  obliged  to  allov; 
this  detested  husband  the  title  of  Duke  of  Bretagne,  and  he 
administered  the  government  without  the  slightest  reference  to  her 
will,  even  in  form,  till  11S9,  when  Henry  II.  died,  execrating 
himself  and  his  undutiful  children.  Whatever  great  and  good 
qualities  this  monarch  may  have  possessed,  his  conduct  in  Bretagne 
was  uniformly  detestable.  Even  the  unfilial  behavior  of  his  sons 
may  be  extenuated ;  for  while  he  spent  his  life,  and  sacrificed 
his  peace,  and  violated  every  principle  of  honor  and  humanity 
to  compass  their  political  aggrandizement,  he  was  guilty  of  atrocious 
injustice  towards  them,  and  set  them  a  bad  example  in  his  own 
person. 

The  tidings  of  Henry's  death  had  no  sooner  reached  Bretagne  than 
the  barons  of  that  country  rose  with  one  accord  against  his  govern- 
ment, banished  or  massacred  his  officers,  and,  sanctioned  by  the 
Duchess  Constance,  drove  Randal  de  Blondeville  and  his  followers 
from  Bretagne;  he  retired  to  his  earldom  of  Chester,  there  to  brood 
over  his   injuries,   and   meditate    vengeance. 

In  the  meantime,  Richard  I.  ascended  the  English  throne.  Soon 
afterwards  he  embarked  on  his  celebrated  expedition  to  the  Holy 
Land,  having  previously  declared  Prince  Arthur,  the  only  son  of 
Constance,  heir  to  all  his  dominions.* 

His  absence,  and  that  of  many  of  her  own  turbulent  barons  and 
encroaching  neighbors,  left  to  Constance  and  her  harassed  dominions 
■  a  short  interval  of  profound  peace.  The  historians  of  that  period, 
occupied  by  the  warlike  exploits  of  the  French  and  English  kings  in 
Palestine,  make  but  little  mention  of  the  domestic  events  of  Europe 
during  their  absence ;  but  it  is  no  slight  encomium  on  the  character 
of  Constance,  that  Bretagne  flourished  under  her  government,  and 
began  to  recover  from  the  effects  of  twenty  years  of  desolating  war. 
The  seven  years  during  which  she  ruled  as  an  independent  sovereign, 
were  not  marked  by  any  events  of  importance ;  but  in  the  year  1196 
she   caused  her  son  Arthur,  then  nine   years  of  age,  to    be    acknow- 


*  By  the  treaty  of  Messina,  1190. 


CONSTANCE.  265 

ledged    Duke    of    Bretagne    by    the    States,  and    associated    him  ^vith 
herself  in  all  the  acts  of  government. 

There  was  more  of  maternal  fondness  than  policy  in  this  measure, 
and  it  cost  her  dear.  Richard,  that  royal  firebrand,  had  now  returned 
to  England :  by  the  intrigues  and  representations  of  Earl  Randal,  his 
attention  was  turned  to  Bretagne.  He  expressed  extreme  indignation 
that  Constance  should  have  proclaimed  her  son  Duke  of  Bretagne 
and  her  partner  in  power,  without  his  consent,  he  being  the  feudal  lord 
and  natural  guardian  of  the  young  prince.  After  some  excuses  and 
representations  on  the  part  of  Constance,  he  affected  to  be  pacified, 
and  a  friendly  interview  was  appointed  at  Pontorson,  on  the  frontiers 
of  Normandy. 

We    can    hardly    reconcile    the    cruel    and   perfidious    scenes  which 
follow  with  those  romantic  and  chivalrous  associations  which  illustrate 
the    memory    of     Cffiur-de-Lion — the     friend     of     Blondel,     and    the 
antagonist    of    Saladin.      Constance,    perfectly    unsuspicious     of    the 
meditated  treason,  accepted   the  invitation    of  her   brother-in-law,  and 
set  out  from    Rennes,    with  a   small    but    magnificent    retinue,  to  join 
him  at  Pontorson.     On  the  road,  and  within    sight    of  the  town,  the 
Earl  of  Chester  was  posted  with    a    troop  of  Richard's  soldiery,  and 
while  the  Duchess  prepared    to    enter    the    gates,  where  she  expected 
to  be  received  with  honor  and  welcome,  he  suddenly  rushed  from  his 
ambuscade,  fell  upon  her  and  her  suite,  put    the  latter    to    flight,  and 
carried  off  Constance  to  the  strong   Castle  of  St.  Jaques  de  Beuvron, 
where  he  detained  her  a  piisoner  for  eighteen  months.     The  chronicle 
does  not  tell  us  how  Randal  treated  his  unfortunate  wife    during   this 
long  imprisonment.     She  was    absolutely  in    his    power ;  none  of  her 
own  people  were  suflfered  to  approach  her,  and  whatever  might    have 
been  his  behavior  towards  her,  one  thing  alone  is  certain,  that  so  far 
from    softening    her   feelings    towards   him,  it    seems    to    have  added 
tenfold  bitterness  to  her  abhorrence  and  her  scorn. 

The  barons  of  Bretagne  sent  the  Bishop  of  Rennes  to  complain 
of  this  violation  of  faith  and  justice,  and  to  demand  the  restitution 
of  the  Duchess.  Richard  meanly  evaded  and  temporized  :  he  engaged 
to  restore  Constance  to  liberty  on  certain  conditions ;  but  this  was 
merely  to  gain  time.  When  the  stipulated  terms  were  complied  with, 
and  the  hostages  delivered,  the  Bretons  sent  a  herald  to  the  English 


266  CONSTANCE. 

king,  to  require  him  to  fulfil  his  part  of  the  treaty,  and  restore  their 
leloved  Constance.  Richard  replied  with  insolent  defiance,  refused  to 
deliver  up  either  the  hostages  or  Constance,  and  marched  his  army 
into  the  heart  of  the  country. 

All  that  Bretagne  had  suffered  previously  was  as  nothing  compared 
to  this  terrible  invasion ;  and  all  that  the  humane  and  peaceful 
government  of  Constance  had  effected  during  seven  years  was  at  once 
annihilated.  The  English  barons  and  their  savage  and  mercenary 
followers  spread  themselves  through  the  country,  which  they  wasted 
with  fire  and  sword.  The  castles  of  those  who  ventured  to  defend 
themselves  were  razed  to  the  ground ;  the  towns  and  villages 
plundered  and  burnt,  and  the  wretched  inhabitants  fled  to  the  caves 
and  forests ;  but  not  even  there  could  they  find  an  asylum ;  by  the 
orders,  and  in  the  presence  of  Richard,  the  woods  were  set  on  fire, 
and  hundreds  either  perished  in  the  flames,  or  were  suffocated  in  the 
smoke. 

Constance,  meanwhile,  could  only  weep  in  her  captivity  over  the 
miseries  of  her  country,  ard  tremble  with  all  a  mother's  fears  for  the 
safety  of  her  son.  She  had  placed  Arthur  under  the  care  of  William 
Desroches,  the  seneschal  of  her  palace,  a  man  of  mature  age,  of 
approved  valor,  and  devotedly  attached  to  her  family.  This 
faithful  servant  threw  himself,  with  his  young  charge,  into  the 
fortress  of  Brest,  where  he  for  some  time  defied  the  power  of  the 
English  King. 

But  notwithstanding  the  brave  resistance  of  the  nobles  and  people 
of  Bretagne,  they  were  obliged  to  submit  to  the  conditions  imposed 
by  Richard.  By  a  treaty  concluded  in  1198,  of  which  the  terms  are 
not  exactly  known,  Constance  was  delivered  from  her  captivity, 
though  not  from  her  husband ;  but  in  the  following  year,  when  the 
death  of  Richard  had  restored  her  to  some  degree  of  independence, 
the  first  use  she  made  of  it  was  to  divorce  herself  from  Randal. 
She  took  this  step  with  her  usual  precipitancy,  not  waiting  for  the 
sanction  of  the  Pope,  as  was  the  custom  in  those  days;  and  soon 
afterwards  she  gave  her  hand  to  Guy,  Count  de  Thouars,  a  man  of 
courage  and  integrity,  who  for  some  time  maintained  the  cause  of 
his  wife  and  her  son  against  the  power  of  England.  Arthur  was 
now  fourteen,  and  the  legitimate   heir    of    all   the   dominions    of  his 


c  o  N  s  T  A  X  r;  e 


207 


uncle  Richard.     Constance  placed  him  under  the    guardianship  of  the 
kin-  of  France,  «ho  knighted  the  young  prince   with  h.s  own  hand, 
and°solemnly  swore  to  defend  his  rights  against  his  usurping  uncle  John 
It   is   at   this   moment   that   the    play   of  King    John   opens ;  and 
history  is  followed  as   closely  as   the   dramatic   form  would   allow,  to 
the  death  of  John.     The  real  fate  of  poor  Arthur,  after  he  had  been 
abandoned  by  the  French,  and  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  h,s  uncle, 
i,    now    ascertained;    but    according    to    the    chronicle    from    which 
Shakspeare  drew  his  materials,  he  was  killed  in  attempting  to  escape 
from  the  castle  of  Falaise.     Constance    did    not    live   to  witness  this 
consummation  of  her  calamities;  within    a    few  months    after    Arthur 
was    taken    prisoner,  in    1201,  she    died    suddenly,    before    she    had 
attained  her  thirty-ninth    year;  but   the    cause    of   her   death    is   not 

specified.  <•    -tr'     i      i 

Her    eldest   daughter    Elinor,  the    legitimate    heiress    of    England, 
Normandy,    and    Bretagne,    died    in    captivity;    having   heen  kept  a 
prisoner  in  Bristol  Castle  from  the   age  of  fifteen.     She  ^vas    at   that 
time    so    beautiful,    that    she    was    called     proverbially,    « La     belle 
Bretonne,"  and   by    the  English   the  "Fair  Maid  of  Brittany."     S^^e, 
like  her  brother  Arthur,  was  sacrificed  to  the  ambition  of  her  uncles. 
Of  the  two  daughters  of  Constance  by  Guy  de  Thouars,  the  eldest, 
Alice  became  Duchess  of  Bretagne,  and  married  the  Count  de  Dreux, 
of  the    royal   blood   of    France.     The    sovereignty   of    Bretagne   was 
transmitted  through  her  descendants  in   an   uninterrupted  line    tdl    by 
the  marriage  of  the  celebrated  Anne   de  Bretagne  with  Charles  ML. 
of    France,    her    dominions    were    for  ever   united    with   the   French 

monarchy.  ,  .  .  . 

In  considering   the  real    history  of   Constance,    three    things  must 

strike   us  as  chiefly   remarkable. 

First,  that  she  is  not  accused  of  any  vice,  or  any  act  of 
iniustice  or  violence;  and  this  praise,  though  poor  and  negative 
should  have  its  due  weight,  considering  the  scanty  records  that 
remain  of  her  troubled  life,  and  the  period  at  which  she  l.ved-- 
a  period  in  which  crimes  of  the  darkest  dye  were  familiar 
occurrences.  Her  father,  Conan,  was  considered  as  a  gentle  and 
amiable  prince-" gentle  even  to  feebleness;"  J-t  we  are  told 
that  on  one  occasion  he   acted   over  again  the   tragedy  of   Ugolino 


2GH  CONS  T  A  N  C  E  . 

and  Rupgiero,  when  he  shut  up  the  Count  de  Dol,  with  his  two 
sor.s  and  his  nephew,  in  a  dungeon,  and  deliberately  starved  them 
to  death  ;  an  event  recorded  without  any  paiticular  comment  by  the 
oil!  chroniclers  of  Bretagne.  It  also  appears  that,  during  those 
intervals  when  Constance  administered  the  government  of  her  states 
with  some  degree  of  independence,  the  country  prospered  under  her 
sway,  and  that  she  possessed  at  all  times  the  love  of  her  people 
and  the  respect  of  her  nobles. 

Secondly,  no  imputation  whatever  has  been  cast  on  the  honor  of 
Constance  as  a  wife  and  as  a  woman.  Tlie  old  historians,  who 
have  treated  in  a  very  unceremonious  style  the  levities  of  her 
greai-grandmother  Matilda,  her  grandmother  Bertha,  her  godmother 
Constance,  arid  her  mother-in-law  Elinor,  treat  the  name  and  memory 
of  our  Lady  Constance  with  uniform  respect. 

Her  third  marriage,  with  Guy  de  Thouars,  has  been  censured  as 
impolitic,  but  has  also  been  defended ;  it  can  hardly,  considering 
her  age,  and  the  circumstances  in  which  she  was  placed,  be  a 
just  subject  of  reproach.  During  her  hated  union  with  Randal  de 
Blondeville,  and  the  years  passed  in  a  species  of  widowhood,  she 
co:i'.'u:f,tl  herself  WMth  propriety:  at  least  I  can  find  no  reason  to 
judge   otherwise. 

Lastly,  we  are  struck  by  the  fearless,  determined  spirit,  amounting 
at  times  to  rashness,  which  Constance  displayed  on  several 
occasions,  when  left  to  the  free  exercise  of  her  own  power  and 
will ;  yet  we  see  how  frequently,  with  all  this  resolution  and  pride 
of  temper,  she  became  a  mere  instrument  in  the  hands  of  others, 
and  a  victim  to  the  superior  craft  or  power  of  her  enemies.  The 
inference  is  unavoidable;  there  must  have  existed  in  the  mind  of 
Constance,  with  all  her  noble  and  amiable  qualities,  a  deficiency 
somewhere,  a  want  of  firmness,  a  want  of  judgment  or  wariness, 
and   a   total   want   of    self-control. 

******** 

In  the  play  of  King  John,  the  three  principal  characters  are  the 
King,  Falconbridge,  and  Lady  Constance.  The  first  is  drawn  forcibly 
and  accurately  from  history :  it  reminds  us  of  Titian's  portrait  of 
Caesar  Borgia,  in  which  the  hatefulness  of  the  subject  is  redeemed 
by    the     masterly    skill     of   the    artist, — the    truth,   and   power,    and 


CONSTANCE.  269 

wonderful  beauty  of  the  execution.  Falconbridge  is  the  spirited 
crealion  of  the  poet.*  Constance  is  certainly  an  historical 
personage;  but  the  form  which,  when  we  meet  it  on  the  record 
of  history,  appears  like  a  pale  indistinct  shadow,  half  melted  into 
its  obscure  back-ground,  starts  before  us  into  a  strange  relief  and 
palpable  breathing   reality   upon   the   page   of    Shakspeare. 

Whenever  we  think  of  Constance,  it  is  in  her  maternal  character. 
All  the  interest  which  she  excites  in  the  drama  turns  upon  her 
situation  as  the  mother  of  Arthur.  Every  circumstance  in  which 
she  is  placed,  every  sentiment  she  utters,  has  a  reference  to  him ; 
and  she  is  represented  through  the  whole  of  the  scenes  in  which 
she  is  engaged,  as  alternately  pleading  for  the  rights,  and  tremblino- 
for  the   existence  of    her   son. 

The  same  may  be  said  of  the  Merope.  In  the  four  tragedies 
of  which  her  story  forms  the  subject,f  we  see  her  but  in  one 
point  of  view,  namely,  as  a  mere  impersonation  of  the  maternal 
feeling.  The  poetry  of  the  situation  is  everything,  the  character 
nothing.  Interesting  as  she  is,  take  Merope  out  of  the  circumstances 
in  which  she  is  placed, — take  away  her  son,  for  whom  she 
trembles  from  the  first  scene  to  the  last,  and  Merope  in  herself 
is  nothing ;  she  melts  away  into  a  name,  to  which  we  can  fix 
no  other  characteristic  by  which  to  distinguish  her.  We  recognize 
her  no  longer.  Her  position  is  that  of  an  agonized  mother ;  and 
we  can  no  more  fancy  her  under  a  different  aspect,  than  we  can 
imagine   the   statue   of   Niobe   in    a   different    attitude. 

But     while    we    contemplate     the    character     of     Constance,    she 

•Malone  says,  that  "in  expanding  the  character  of  the  bastard,  Shakspeare 
seems  to  have  proceeded  on  the  following  slight  hint  in  an  old  ))lay  on  the  story  of 
King  John : — 

Next  them   a   bastard  of    the  king's   deceased — 
A  hardy  wild-head,   rough   and   venturous. " 

It  is  easy  to  say  this  ;    yet  who  but    Shakspeare    could    have  expanded    the  last    line 
into  a  Falconbridge  ? 

fThe  Greek  Merope,  which  was  esteemed  one  of  the  finest  of  the  tragedies  of 
Euripides,  is  unhappily  lost;  Ihose  of  Maflei,  Alfieri,  and  Voltaire,  are  well  known, 
rhere  is  another  Merope  in  Italian,  which  I  have  not  seen  ;  the  English  Merope  ii 
merelv  a  bad  translation  from  Voltaire 


270  CONS  T  A  X  C  E  . 

assumes  before  us  an  individuality  perfectly  distinct  from  the 
circumstances  aroimd  her.  The  action  calls  forth  her  maternal 
feelings,  and  places  them  in  the  most  prominent  point  of  view : 
but  ^vith  Constance,  as  Avith  a  real  human  being,  the  maternal 
affections  are  a  powerful  instinct,  modified  by  other  faculties,  senti- 
ments, and  impulses,  making  up  the  individual  character.  We 
think  of  her  as  a  mother,  because,  as  a  mother  distracted  for  the 
loss  of  her  son,  she  is  immediately  presented  before  us,  and  calls 
forth  our  sympathy  and  our  tears;  but  we  infer  the  rest  of  her 
character  from  what  we  see,  as  certainly  and  as  completely  as  if 
we   had   known   her   whole    course  of    life. 

That  which  strikes  us  as  the  principal  attribute  of  Constance 
is  power — power  of  imagination,  of  will,  of  passion,  of  affection, 
of  pride :  the  moral  energy,  that  faculty  which  is  principally 
exercised  in  self-control,  and  gives  consistency  to  the  rest,  is 
deficient;  or  rather,  to  speak  more  correctly,  the  extraordinary 
development  of  sensibility  and  imagination,  which  lends  to  the 
character  its  rich  poetical  coloring,  leaves  the  other  qualities 
comparatively  subordinate.  Hence  it  is  that  the  whole  complexion 
of  the  character,  notwithstanding  its  amazing  grandeur,  is  so 
exquisitely  feminine.  The  weakness  of  the  woman,  who  by  the 
very  consciousness  of  that  weakness  is  worked  up  to  desperation 
and  defiance,  the  fluctuations  of  temper  and  the  bursts  of  sublime 
passion,  the  terrors,  the  impatience,  and  the  tears,  are  all  most 
true  to  feminine  nature.  The  energy  of  Constance  not  being 
based  upon  strength  of  character,  rises  and  falls  with  the  tide 
of  passion.  Her  haughty  spirit  swells  against  resistance,  and  is 
excited  into  frenzy  by  sorrow  and  disappointment ;  \vhile  neither 
from  her  towering  pride,  nor  her  strength  of  intellect,  can  she 
borrow  patience  to  submit,  or  fortitude  to  endure.  It  is,  therefore, 
with  perfect  truth  of  nature,  that  Constance  is  first  introduced  as 
pleading  for  peace. 


Stay  for  an  answer  to  your  embassy, 

Lest  unadvised  you  stain  your  swords  with  blood : 

My  lord  Chatillon  may  from  England  bring 

That  right  in  peace,  which  here  we  urge  in  war ; 


CONSTANCE.  271 

And  then  we  shall  repent  each  drop  of  blood, 
That  hot,  rash  haste  so  indirectly  shed. 

And  that  the  same  woman,  when  all  her  passions  are  roused  by 
the  sense  of  injury,  should  afterwards   exclaim, 

War,  war !     No  peace  !  peace  is  to  me  a  war ! 

That  she  should  be  ambitious  for  her  son,  proud  of  his  high 
birth  and  royal  rights,  and  violent  in  defending  them,  is  most 
natural ;  but  I  cannot  agree  with  those  who  think  that  in  the  mind  of 
Constance,  ambition — that  is,  the  love  of  dominion  for  its  own  sake 
— is  either  a  strong  motive  or  a  strong  feeling :  it  could  hardly  be 
so  where  the  natural  impulses  and  the  ideal  power  predominate  in 
so  high  a  degree.  The  vehemence  with  which  she  asserts  the  just 
and  legal  rights  of  her  son  is  that  of  a  fond  mother  and  a  proud- 
spirited woman,  stung  with  the  sense  of  injury,  and  herself  a 
reigning  sovereign, — by  birth  and  right,  if  not  in  fact :  yet  when 
bereaved  of  her  son,  grief  not  only  "  fills  the  room  up  of  her  absent 
child,"  but  seems  to  absorb  every  other  faculty  and  feeling — even 
pride  and  anger.  It  is  true  that  she  exults  over  him  as  one  whom 
nature  and  fortune  had  destined  to  be  great,  but  in  her  distraction 
for  his  loss,  she  thinks  of  him  only  as  her  "  Pretty  Arthur." 

O  lord !  my  boy,  my  Arthur,  my  fair  son ! 
My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world  ! 
My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrows'  cure  ! 

No  other  feeling  can  be  traced  through  the  whole  of  her  frantic 
scene :  it  is  grief  only,  a  mother's  heart-rending,  soul-absorbing 
grief,  and  nothing  else.  Not  even  indignation,  or  the  desire  of 
revenge,  interfere  with  its  soleness  and  intensity.  An  ambitious 
woman  would  hardly  have  thus  addressed  the  cold,  wily  Cardinal : — > 

And,  Father  Cardinal,  I  have  heard  you  say, 

That  wo  shall  see  and  know  our  friends  in  heaven : 

If  that  be  true,  I  shall  see  my  boy  again; 

For  eincQ  tbo  birth  of  Cain,  the  first  male  child, 


CrJ  C  U  -\  S  T  A  N  C  E  . 

To  him  that  did  but  yesterday  suspire, 
There  was  not  such  a  gracious  creature  boni. 
Hut  now  will  canker  sorrow  eat  my  bud, 
And  chase  the  native  beauty  from  his  cheek, 
And  he  will  look   as  hollow  as  a  phost; 
As  dim  and  meager  as  an  ague's  lit ; 
And  so  he'll  die;  and  rising  so  again, 
When   I   shall  meet  him  in  the  court  of  heaven 
I  shall  not  know  him :  therefore  never,  never, 
Must  I  behold  my  pretty  Artluir  more  1 

The  bewildered  pathos  and  poetry  of  this  address  could  be  natural 
in  no  woman,  who  did  not  unite,  like  Constance,  the  most  passionate 
sensibility  with   the   most  vivid  imagination. 

It  is  true  that  Queen  Elinor  calls  her  on  one  occasion,  "  ambitious 
Constance ; "'  but  .the  epithet  is  rather  the  natural  expression  of 
Elinor's  own  fear  and  hatred  than  really  applicable.*  Elinor,  in 
whom  age  had  subdued  all  passions  but  ambition,  dreaded  the  mother 
of  Arthur  as  her  rival  in  power,  and  for  that  reason  only  opposed 
the  claims  of  the  son :  but  I  conceive,  that  in  a  woman  yet  in 
the  prime  of  life,  and  endued  with  the  peculiar  disposition  of 
Constance,  the  mere  love  of  power  would  be  too  much  modified 
by   fancy    and    feeling   to   be  called    a  passion. 

In  fact,  it  is  not  pride,  nor  temper,  nor  ambition,  nor  even 
maternal  affection,  which  in  Constance  gives  the  prevailing  tone  to 
the  whole  character :  it  is  the  predominance  of  imagination.  I  do 
not  mean  in  the  conception  of  the  dramatic  portrait,  but  in  the 
temperament  of  the  woman  herself.  In  the  poetical,  fanciful, 
excitable  cast  of  her  mind,  in  the  excess  of  the  ideal  power, 
tinging  all  her  affections,  exalting  all  her  sentiments  and  thoughts, 
and  animating  the  expression  of  both,  Constance  can  only  be 
compared  to   Juliet. 

In   the   firs*    place,   it  is    through   the  power   of    imagination   that, 
w^hen  under  the    influence  of    excited  temper,   Constance    is    not    a 


•"Queen  Elinor  saw  that  if  ho  were  king,  ho'.v  his  mother  Constance  would 
look  to  bear  the  most  rule  in  the  realm  of  England,  till  her  son  should  come  to  a 
lawful  oge  to   govern  of  himself." — HnjjvaHEP 


CONSTANCE.  273 

mere  incensed  woman ;  nor  does  slie.  in  the  style  of  Volumnia, 
"lament  in  anger,  Juno-like,"  but  rather  like  a  sybil  in  a  fury. 
Her  sarcasms  come  down  like  thunderbolts.  In  her  famous  address 
to   Austria — 

O  Lymoges  !   O  Austria !  thou  dost  sharne 

That  bloody  spoil !  thou  slave !  thou  wretch !  thou  coward !  &.c. 

it  is  as  if  she  had  concentrated  the  burning  spirit  of  scorn,  and 
dashed  it  in  his  face :  every  word  seems  to  blister  where  it  falls. 
In  the  scolding  scene  between  her  and  queen  Elinor,  the  laconic 
msolence  of  the  latter  is  completely  overborne  by  the  torrent  of 
bitter  contumely  which  bursts  from  the  lips  of  Constance,  clothed 
in  the  most   energetic,  and  often  in  the  most  figurative  expressions. 

ELINOE. 

Who  is  it  thou  dost  call  usurper,  France  ? 

CONSTAKCE. 

Let  me  make  answer;  Thy  usurping  son. 


Out  insolent!  thy  bastard  shall  be  king, 

That  tliou  may'st  bo  a  queen,  and  check  the  world! 

CONSTANCE. 

My  bed  was  ever  to  thy  son  as  true, 

As  thine  was  to  thy  husband ;  and  this  boy 

liker  in  feature  to  his  father  Geffrey, 

Than  thou  and  John  in  manners :  being  as  like 

As  rain  to  water,  or  devil  to  his  dam. 

My  boy  a  bastard!     By  my  soul,  I  think 

His  father  never  was  so  true  begot; 

It  cannot  be,  an  if  thou  wert  Jiis  mother. 

ELINOR. 

There's  a  good  mother,  boy,  that  blots  thy  father. 
35 


C  U  N  S  T  A  N  C  E  . 

COXSTANCE. 

There's  a  good  grandam,  boy,  that  would  blot  tliee 
*  *  *  ^  ♦ 

ELINOR. 

Come  to  thy  grandam.  child. 

CONSTANCE. 

Do,  child ;  go  to  its  grandam,  child : 
Give  grandam  kingdom,  and  its  grandam  will 
Give  it  a  plum,  a  cherry,  and  a  fig: 
There's  a  good  grandam. 


Good  my  mother,  peace ! 
I  would  that  I  were  low  laid  in  my  grave ; 
I  am  not  worth  this  coil  that's  made  for  me. 

ELINOR. 

His  mother  shames  him  so,  poor  boy,  he  weeps. 

CONSTANCE, 

Now  shame  upon  you,  whe'r  she  does  or  no  ! 

His  grandam's  wrongs,  and  not  his  moliier's  shame, 

Draw  those  heaven-moving  pearls  from  his  poor  eyes, 

Which  heaven  shall  take  in  nature  of  a  fee  : 

Ay>  with  these  crystal  beads  heav'n  shall  be  bribed 

To  do  him  justice,  and  revenge  on  you. 

ELINOR. 

Tiiou  monstrous  slanderer  of  heaven  and  earth .' 

CONSTANCE. 

Thou  monstrous  injurer  of  heaven  and  earth  ! 
Call  me  not  slanderer ;  thou  and  thine  usurp 
The  dominations,  royalties,  and  rights 
Of  this  oppressed  boy.     This  is  thy  eldest  son's  soa, 
Infortunate  in  nothing  but  in  thee. 


CONS  T  A  NCR.  275 


ELINOFi.. 


Thou  unadvised   scold,  I   can  produce 
A  will  that  bars  the  title  of  thy  son. 


COXSTA>'CE. 


Ay,  who  doubts  that  ?     A  will !  a  wicked  will— 
A  woman's  will — a  cankerd  grandam's  will ! 

KING   PHILIP. 

Peace,  lady :  pause,  or  be  more  moderate. 

And  in  a  very  opposite  mood,  when  struggling  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  her  own  helpless  situation,  the  same  susceptible  and  excitable 
fancy  still  predominates: — 

Thou  slialt  be  punish'd  for  thus  frighting  me ; 
For  I  am  sick,  and    capable  of  fears; 
Oppressed  with  wrongs,  and  therefore  full  of  fears ; 
A  widow,  husbandless,  subject  to  fears ; 
A  woman,  naturally  born  to  fears ; 
And    though  thou  now  confess  thou  didst  but  jest 
With  my  vexed  spirits,  I   cannot  take   a  truce, 
But  they  will  quake  and  tremble  all  this   day. 
What  dost  thou  mean  by  shaking  of  thy  head  ? 
Why  dost  thou  look   so  sadly  on   my  son? 
What  means  that  hand  upon  that  breast  of  thine? 
Why  holds  thine   eye  that  lamentable  rheum. 
Like  a  proud  river  peering  o'er  his  bounds? 
Be  these   sad   signs   confirmers  of  thy  words? 

Fellow,  begone  !  I  cannot  brook  thy   sight — 
This  news  hath  made  thee  a  most  ugly  man'. 

It  is  the  power  of  imagination  which  gives  so  peculiar  a  tinge  to 
ihe  maternal  tenderness  of  Constance ;  she  not  only  loves  her  son 
with  the  fond  instinct  of  a  mother's  affection,  but  she  loves  him 
with  her  poetical  imagination,  exults  in  his  beauty  and  his  royal 
birth,  hangs  over  him  with  idolatry,  and  sees  his  infant  brow  already 
encircled  with  the  diadem.     Her  pi-oud  spirit,  her    ardent    enthusiastic 


276  CONS  T  A  X  C  E  . 

fancy,  and  her  energetic  self-will,  all  combine  with  her  maternal  love 
to  give  it  that  tone  and  character  which  belongs  to  her  only  :  hence 
that  most  beautiful  address  to  her  son  which,  coming  from  the  lips 
of  Constance,  is  as  full  of  nature  and  truth  as  of  pathos  and 
poetry,  and  which  we  could   hardly  sympathize  with  in  any  other  : — 

ARTHUR. 

I   do   beseech   you,   madam,   be   content. 

CONSTANCE. 

If  thou,  that  bid'st  me  be   content,  wert  grim, 
Ugly,  and  slanderous  to  thy  mother's  womb. 
Full  of  unpleasing  blots   and   sightless   stains, 
Lame,  foolish,  crooked,  swart,  prodigious, 
Patched  with   foul   moles   and   eye-offending  marks, 
I  would  not  care — I   then  would   be  content ; 
For  then  I   should  not  love  thee  ;  no,   nor  thou 
Become  thy  great  birth,  nor  deserve  a  crown. 
But  thou  art  fair,  and  at  thy  birth,   dear  boy ! 
Nature  and  Fortune  join'd   to  make  thee  great : 
Of  Nature's   gifts  thou  mayest   with   lilies  boast. 
And  with  the  half-blown  rose  :   but  Fortune,  O  ! 
She  is   corrupted,   chang'd,   and   won  from  thee ; 
She   adulterates   hourly  with  thine   uncle   John ; 
And   with   her   golden   hand  hath   pluck'd   on  France 
To  tread  down  fair  respect  of    sovereignty. 

It  is  this  exceeding  vivacity  of  imagination  which  in  the  and 
turns  sorrow  to  frenzy.  Constance  is  not  only  a  bereaved  and 
doating  mother,  but  a  generous  woman,  betrayed  by  her  own  rash 
confidence ;  in  whose  mind  the  sense  of  injury  mingling  with  the 
sense  of  grief,  and  her  impetuous  temper  conflicting  with  her  pride, 
combine  to  overset  her  reason ;  yet  she  is  not  mad :  and  how 
admirably,  how  forcibly  she  herself  draws  the  distinction  between 
the  frantic  violence  of  uncontrolled  feeling  and  actual  madness ! — 

Thou  art  not  holy  to  belie  me   so ; 

I   am  not  mad :   this   hair   I  tear  is   mine ; 

My  name   is   Constance ;   I   was   Geffrey's   wife ; 


CONSTANCE.  277 

Young  Arthur   is   my   son,   and   he   is  lost : 
I   am  not  mad :   I  would  to  Heaven  I  were  ! 
For  then,  'tis   like  I  should  forget  myself: 
O,  if   I   could,  what  grief    should  I   forget! 

Not  only  has  Constance  words  at  will,  and  fast  as  the  passionate 
feelings  rise  in  her  mind  they  are  poured  forth  with  vivid,  over- 
powering eloquence ;  but,  like  Juliet,  she  may  be  said  to  speak  in 
pictures.     For  instance: — 

Why  holds  thine  eye  that  lamentable  rheum? 
Like  a  proud  river  peering  o'er  its  bounds. 

And  throughout  the  whole  dialogue  there  is  the  same  overflow 
of  eloquence,  the  same  splendor  of  diction,  the  same  luxuriance 
of  imagery;  yet  with  an  added  grandeur,  arising  from  habits  of 
command,  from  the  age,  the  rank,  and  the  matronly  character  of 
Constance.  Thus  Juliet  pours  forth  her  love  like  a  muse  in  a 
rapture:  Constance  raves  in  her  sorrow  like  a  Pythoness  possessed 
with  the  spirit  of  pain.  The  love  of  Juliet  is  deep  and  infinite 
as  the  boundless  sea:  and  the  grief  of  Constance  is  so  great, 
that  nothing  but  the  round  world   itself    is   able   to  sustain   it. 

I  will  instruct  my  sorrows  to  be  proud; 
For  grief   is   proud  and  makes  his   owner   stout. 
To   me,  and  to  the   state   of   my   great  grief 
Let  kings   assemble,  for   my  grief's   so   great, 
That  no   supporter  but  the  huge   firm  earth 
Can  hold   it  up.     Here  I   and   Sorrow   sit; 
Here  is   my   throne,— bid   kings  come   bow   to   it! 

An  image  more  majestic,  move  wonderfully  sublime,  "vas  never 
presented  t"o  the  fancy;  yet  almost  equal  as  a  flight  of  poetry  is 
her  apostrophe   to   the   heavens;— 

Arm,  arm,  ye  neavens,  against  these  perjured  kings, 
A  widow  calls !— be  husband  to   me,  heavens  ' 


278  CONSTANCE. 

And  again — 

O  that  my  tongue  were   in  the   thunder's  mouth, 
Then  with  a   passion  would   I  shake   the   world ! 

Not     only    do    her    thoughts    start    into     images,    but    her     feelings 
become  persons :   grief   haunts  her  as   a   living  presence : 

Grief  fills  the    room  up  of  my   absent  child ; 
Lies   in   his   bed,   walks   up  and   down   with   me ; 
Puts  on  his   pretty  looks,  repeats   liis  words, 
Remembers  me  of   all  his  gracious  parts, 
Stuffs   out  his  vacant  garments   with  his   form  ; 
Then  have   I   reason  to   be   fond   of  grief. 

And  death  is  welcomed  as  a  bridegroom ;  she  sees  the  visionary 
monster  as  Juliet  saio  "  the  bloody  Tybalt  festering  in  his  shroud," 
and  heaps  one  ghastly  image  upon  another  with  all  the  wild 
luxuriance  of  a  distempered  fancy : — 

O  amiable,  lo\'ely  death  ! 
Thou  odoriferous  stench !   sound  rottenness  ! 
Arise   forth  from   the   couch  of  lasting  night, 
Thou   hate  and  terror   to  prosperity, 
And  I  will  kiss  thy  detestable   bones ; 
And   put  my  eye-balls   in  thy  vaulty  brows ; 
And  ring  these   fingers   with  thy  household  worms ; 
And  stop  this  gap  of  breath   with   fulsome  dust ; 
And  be  a   carrion   monster   like    thyself: 
Come,   grin   on   me,   and  I   will  think  thou   smil'st, 
And  buss  thee   as  thy  wife !     Misery's  love, 
O  come  to  me ! 

Constance,  who  is  a  majestic  being,  is  majestic  in  her  very  frenzy. 
Majesty  is  also  the  characteristic  of  Hermione  :  but  what  a  difference 
between  her  silent,  lofty,  uncomplaining  despair,  and  the  eloquent 
grief  of  Constance,  whose  wild  lamentations,  which  come  bursting 
forth  clothed  in  the  grandest,  the  most  poetical  imagery,  not  only 
melt,  but  absolutely  electrify  us! 


CONSTANCE.  279 

On  the  whole,  it  may  be  said  that  pride  and  maternal  affection 
form  the  basis  of  the  character  of  Constance,  as  it  is  exhibited  to 
us ;  but  that  these  passions,  in  an  equal  degree  common  to  many 
human  beings,  assume  their  peculiar  and  individual  tinge  from  an 
extraordinary*  development  of  intellect  and  fancy.  It  is  the  energy 
of  passion  which  lends  the  character  its  concentrated  power,  as  it  is 
the  prevalence  of  imagination  throughout  which  dilates  it  into 
'  magnificence. 

Some  of  the  most  splendid  poetry  to  be  met  with  in  Shakspeare, 
may  be  found  in  the  parts  of  Juliet  and  Constance ;  the  most  splendid 
perhaps,  excepting  only  the  parts  of  Lear  and  Othello  ;  and  for  the 
same  reason, — -that  Lear  and  Othello  as  men,  and  Juliet  and  Constance 
as  women,  are  distinguished  by  the  predominance  of  the  same 
faculties — passion  and  imagination. 

The    sole    deviation    from    history    which    may    be    considered    as 
essentially  interfering    with  the   truth  of   the    situation,  is    the    entire 
omission   of  the  character   of  Guy  de  Thouars,  so  that   Constance  is 
incorrectly  represented  as  in  a  state  of  widowhood,  at  a  period  when, 
in    point    of   fact,  she    was    married.      It  may  be    observed,  that    her 
marriage  took  place  just  at  the  period  of  the  opening  of  the  drama ; 
that  Guy  de   Thouars   played    no  conspicuous   part  in    the  affairs    of 
Bretagne  till  after  the  death  of  Constance,  and  that  the  mere  presence 
of  this  personage,  altogether  superfluous   in   the   action,  would   have 
completely  destroyed  the  dramatic  interest  of  the  situation ; — and  what 
a    situation !     One    more    magnificent  was    never    placed    before    the 
mind's    eye  than  that  of   Constance,  when,  deserted  and  betrayed,  she 
stands    alone  in  her  despair,  amid  her    false  friends    and  her    ruthless 
enemies !  *     The  image  of  the  mother-eagle,  wounded  and  bleeding  to 
death,    yet  stretched  over  her  young  in  an  attitude  of  defiance,  while 
all  the  baser  birds  of  prey  are  clamoring  around  her  eirie,  gives  but 
a  faint  idea  of  the  moral  sublimity  of  this  scene.     Considered  merely 
as  a  poetical  or    dramatic   picture,  the    grouping  is   wonderfully  fine; 
on  one   side,  the  vulture    ambition  of  that  mean-souled   tyrant,  John ; 
on  the  other,  the  selfish,  calculating  policy  of  Philip  :  between  them, 
balancing    their    passions    in    his    hand,    the    cold,    subtle,    heartless 

'King  John,   Act   iii.,   scene   1 


280  CONSTANCE. 

Legate:  the  fiery,  reckless  Falconbridge ;  the  princely  Louis;  the  still 
unconquered  spirit  of  that  wrangling  queen,  old  Elinor ;  the  bridal 
lovehness  and  modesty  of  Blanche;  the  boyish  grace  and  innocence 
of  young  Arthur ;  and  Constance  in  the  midst  of  them,  in  all 
the  state  of  her  great  grief,  a  grand  impersonation  of  pride 
and  passion,  helpless  at  once  and  desperate, — form  an  assemblage 
of  figures,  each  perfect  in  its  kind,  and  taken  all  together,  not 
surpassed,  for  the  variety,  force,  and  splendor  of  the  dramatic  and 
picturesque   effect 


QUEEN    ELINOR 


Elinor  of  Guienne,  and  Blanche  of  Castile,  who  form  part  of  the 
group  around  Constance,  are  sketches  merely,  but  they  are  strictly 
historical  portraits,  and  full  of  truth  and  energy. 

At  the  period  when  Shakspeare  has  brought  these  three  women  on 
the  scene  together,  Elinor  of  Guienne  (the  daughter  of  the  last  Duke 
of  Guienne  and  Aquitainc,  and,  like  Constance,  the  heiress  of  a 
sovereign  duchy),  was  near  the  close  of  her  long,  various,  and 
unquiet  life — she  was  nearly  seventy ;  and  as  in  early  youth  her 
violent  passions  had  overborne  both  principle  and  pohcy,  so  in  her 
old  age  we  see  the  same  character  only  modified  by  time ;  her  strong 
intellect,  and  love  of  power,  unbridled  by  conscience  or  principle, 
surviving  when  other  passions  were  extinguished,  and  rendered  more 
dangerous  by  a  degree  of  subtlety  and  self-command  to  which  her 
youth  had  been  a  stranger.  Her  personal  and  avowed  hatred  for 
Constance,  together  with  its  motives,  are  mentioned  by  the  old 
historians.  Holinshed  expressly  says,  that  Queen  EUnor  was  mightily 
set  against  her  grandson  Arthur,  rather  moved  thereto  by  envy 
conceived  against  his  mother,  than  by  any  fault  of  the  young 
prince,  for  that  she  knew  and  dreaded  the  high  spirit  of  the  Lady 
Constance. 

Shakspeare  has  rendered  this  with  equal  spirit  and  fidelity 

QUEEN     EUNOR. 

What  now,  my   son !    have   I   not  ever  said, 
How   that   ambitious   Constance    would   not   cease, 

3G 


282  QUEENELINOR. 

Till   she   had  kindled   France  and  all  the  world 

Upon  the   right   and   party   of    her  son  ? 

Tliis   might  have   been  prevented  and  made   whole 

With  very  easy  arguments   of    love ; 

Which  now  the   manage   of   two  kingdoms   must 

With  fearful  bloody  issue   arbitrate. 

KING   JOHN. 

Our  strong   possession  and   our  right  for  ns  ! 

QUEEN    ELINOR. 

Your  strong  possession  much  more  than  your  right; 
Or  else  it  must  go  wrong  with  you  and  me. 
So  much  my  conscience  whispers  in  your  ear — 
Which  none  but  Heaven,  and  you,  and  I,  shall  hear. 

Queen  Elinor  preserved  to  the  end  of  her  life  her  influence  over 
her  children,  and  appears  to  have  merited  their  respect.  While 
entrusted  with  the  government,  during  the  absence  of  Richard  I.,  she 
ruled  with  a  steady  hand,  and  made  herself  exceedingly  popular ;  and 
as  long  as  she  lived  to  direct  the  counsels  of  her  son  John  his  affairs 
prospered.  For  that  intemperate  jealousy  which  converted  her  into  a 
domestic  firebrand,  there  was  at  least  much  cause,  though  little 
excuse.  Elinor  had  hated  and  wronged  the  husband  of  her  youth,  * 
and  she  had  afterwards  to  endure  the  negligence  and  innumerable 
infidelities  of  the  husband  whom  she  passionately  loved :  f — "  and  so 
the  whirlygig  of  time  brought  in  his  revenges."  Elinor  died  in 
1203,  a  few  months  after  Constance,  and  before  the  murder  of 
Arthur — a  crime  which,  had  she  lived,  would  probably  never  have 
been  consummated ;  for  the  nature  of  Elinor,  though  violent,  had  no 
tincture  of  the  baseness  and  cruelty  of  her   son. 


*  Louis  VII.  of  France,  whom  she  was  accustomed  to  call  in  contempt,  the  monk. 
Elinor's  adventures  in  Syria,  whither  she  accompanied  Louis  on  the  second  Crusade, 
would  form  a  romance. 

t  Henry  II.  of  England.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  observe  that  the  story  of  Fair 
Rosamond,  as  far  as  Elinor  is  concerned,  is  a  mere  invention  of  some  ballad-maker 
of  later  times. 


BLANCHE. 


Blanche  of  Castile  was  the  daughter  of  Alphonso  IX.  of  Castile, 
and  the  grand-daughter  of  Elinor.  At  the  time  that  she  is  introduced 
into  the  drama,  she  was  about  fifteen,  and  her  marriage  with  Louis 
VIII.,  then  Dauphin,  took  place  in  the  abrupt  manner  here 
represented.  It  is  not  often  that  political  marriages  have  the  same 
happy  result.  We  are  told  by  the  historians  of  that  time,  that 
from  the  moment  Louis  and  Blanche  met,  they  were  inspired  by  a 
mutual  passion,  and  that  during  a  union  of  more  than  twenty-six 
years  they  were  never  known  to  differ,  nor  even  spent  more  than  a 
single  day  asunder.* 

In  her  exceeding  beauty  and  blameless  reputation;  her  love  lor 
her  husband,  and  strong  domestic  affections;  her  pride  of  birth  and 
rank ;  her  feminine  gentleness  of  deportment ;  her  firmness  of  temper  ; 
her  religious  bigotry;  her  love  of  absolute  power  and  her  upright 
and  conscientious  administration  of  it,  Blanche  greatly  resembled 
Maria  Theresa  of  Austria.  She  was,  however,  of  a  more  cold  and 
calculating  nature;  and  in  proportion  as  she  was  less  amiable  as 
a  woman,  did  she  rule  more  happily  for  herself  and  others.  There 
cannot  be  a  greater  contrast  than  between  the  acute  understanding, 
the  steady  temper,  and  the  cool  intriguing  policy  of  Blanche,  by 
which  she  succeeded   in  disuniting  and  defeating  the  powers  arrayed 


*  Vide  Mezcrai. 


28 1  B  L  A  N  CHE. 

against  her  and  her  infant  son,  and  the  rash  confiding  temper  and 
susceptible  imagination  of  Constance,  which  rendered  herself  and 
her  son  easy  victims  to  the  fraud  or  ambition  of  others.  Blanche, 
during  forty  years,  held  in  her  hands  the  destinies  of  the  greater 
part  of  Europe,  and  is  one  of  the  most  celebrated  names  recorded 
in  history — but  in  what  does  she  survive  to  us  except  in  a  name  ? 
Nor  history,  nor  fame,  though  "  trumpet-tongued,"  could  do  for 
her  what  Shakspeare  and  poetry  have  done  for  Constance.  The 
earthly  reign  of  Blanche  is  over,  her  sceptre  broken,  and  her  power 
departed.  When  will  the  reign  of  Constance  cease  ?  when  will  her 
power  depart?  Not  while  this  world  is  a  world,  and  there  exist 
in  it  human  souls  to  kindle  at  the  touch  of  genius,  and  human 
hearts   to   throb   with   human   sympathies ! 

*******  * 

There  is  no  female  character  of  any  interest  in  the  play  of  Richard 
II.  The  Queen  (Isabelle  of  France)  enacts  the  same  passive  part  in 
the  drama  that  she  does  in  history. 

The  same  remark  applies  to  Henry  IV.  In  this  admirable  play 
(here  is  no  female  character  of  any  importance;  hut  Lady  Percy, 
(!ic  v.ife  of  Hotspur,  is  a  very  lively  and  beautiful  sketch:  she  is 
sprightly,  feminine,  and  fond ;  but  without  anything  energetic  or 
profound,  in  mind  or  in  feeling.  Her  gaiety  and  spirit,  in  the 
first  scenes,  are  the  result  of  youth  and  happiness,  and  nothing  can 
be  more  natural  than  the  utter  dejection  and  brokenness  of  heart 
which  follow  her  husband's  death  :  she  is  no  heroine  for  war  or 
tragedy :  she  has  no  thought  of  revenging  her  loss :  and  even  her 
grief  has  something  soft  and  quiet  in  its  pathos.  Her  speech  to 
her  father-in-law,  Northumberland,  in  which  she  entreats  him  "  not 
to  go  to  the  wars,"  and  at  the  same  time  pronounces  the  most 
beautiful  eulogium  on  her  heroic  husband,  is  a  perfect  piece  of 
feminine  eloquence,  both  in  the  feeling  and    in   the   expression. 

Almost    every    one    knows    by     heart    I^ady     Percy's     celebrated 
address  to  her  husband,  beginning, 

O,  my  good  lord,  why  are  you  thus  alone  ? 

and   that   of    Portia   to    Brutus,  in   Julius  Csesar, 


PORTIA.  285 


You've  ungently,  Brutus, 
Stol'n  from  my   bed. 


The  situation  is  exactly  similar,  the  topics  of  remonstrance  are 
nearly  the  same ;  the  sentiments  and  the  style  as  opposite  as  are 
the  characters  of  the  two  women.  Lady  Percy  is  evidently 
accustomed  to  win  more  from  her  fiery  lord  by  caresses  than  by 
reason :  he  loves  her  in  his  rough  way,  "  as  Harry  Percy's  wife," 
but  she  has  no  real  influence  over  him :  he  has  no  confidence  in 
her. 

LADY   PERCY. 

In  faith, 
I  '11  know  your  business,  Harry,  that  I  will ; 
I  fear  my  brother  Mortimer  doth   stir 
About  his  title,  and  hath   sent  for  you 
To  line  his  enterprise,  but  if  you  go — 

HOTSPUR. 

So  far  afoot,  I  shall  be  weary,  love ! 


The  whole  scene  is  admirable,  but  unnecessary  here,  because  it 
illustrates  no  point  of  character  in  her.  Lady  Percy  has  no  character, 
properly  so  called;  whereas,  that  of  Portia  is  very  distinctly  and 
faithfully  drawn  from  the  outline  furnished  by  Plutarch.  Lady 
Percy's  fond  upbraidings,  and  her  half  playful,  half  pouting  entreaties, 
scarcely  gain  her  husband's  attention.  Portia,  with  true  matronly 
dignity  and  tenderness,  pleads  her  right  to  share  her  husband's 
thoughts,  and   proves   it   too. 


I  grant  I  am  a  woman,  but  withal, 

A  woman  that  Lord  Brutus  took  to  wife; 

I  grant  I  am  a  woman,  but  withal, 

A  woman  well  reputed — Cato's  daughter. 

Think  you  I  am  no  stronger  than  my  sex, 

Being  so  father'd  and  so  husbanded? 


•:&G  PORTIA 


You  are  my  true  and  honorable  wife : 
As  dear  to  me,  as  are  the  ruddy  drops 
That  visit  my  sad  heart ! 

Portia,  as  Shakspeare  has  truly  felt  and  represented  the  character, 
IS  but  a  softened  reflection  of  that  of  her  husband  Brutus :  in  him 
we  see  an  excess  of  natural  sensibility,  an  almost  womanish 
tenderness  of  heart,  repressed  by  the  tenets  of  his  austere  philosophy : 
a  stoic  by  profession,  and  in  reality  the  reverse — acting  deeds 
against  his  nature  by  the  strong  force  of  principle  and  will.  In 
Portia  there  is  the  same  profound  and  passionate  feeling,  and  all 
her  sex's  softness  and  timidity  held  in  check,  by  that  self-discipline, 
that  stately  dignity,  which  she  thought  became  a  woman  "  so 
fathered  and  so  husbanded."  The  fact  of  her  inflicting  on  herself 
a  voluntary  wound  to  try  her  own  fortitude  is  perhaps  the  strongest 
proof  of  this  disposition.  Plutarch  relates,  that  on  the  day  on  which 
Caesar  was  assassinated,  Portia  appeared  overcome  with  terror,  and 
even  swooned  away,  but  did  not  in  her  emotion  utter  a  word 
W'hich  could  affect  the  conspirators.  Shakspeare  has  rendered  this 
circumstance   literally. 

PORTIA. 

I  pr'ythee,  boy,  run  to  the  senate  house. 
Stay  not  to  answer  me,  but  get  thee  gone. 
Why  dost  thou  stay  ? 

LUCIUS. 

To  know  my  errand,  madam. 

POKTIA. 

I  would  have  had  thee  there  and  here  again, 
Ere  I  can  tell  thee  what  thou  should'st  do  there. 

0  constancy !  be  strong  upon  my  side : 

Set  a  huge  mountain  'tween  my  heart  and  tonguo ! 

1  have  a  man's  mind,  but  a  woman's  might. 

Ah  me!    how  weak  a  thing 
The  heart  of  woman  is  !     0  1  grow  faint,  &c. 


PORTIA. 


287 


There  is  another  beautiful  incident  related  by  Plutarch,  which 
could  not  well  be  dramatised.  When  Brutus  and  Portia  parted 
for  the  last  time  on  the  island  of  Nisida,  she  restrained  all 
expression  of  grief  that  she  might  not  shake  his  fortitude;  but 
afterwards,  in  passing  through  a  chamber  in  which  there  hung  a  picture 
of  Hector  and  Andromache,  she  stopped,  gazed  upon  it  for  a 
time  with  a  settled  sorrow,  and  at  length  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears.  * 

If  Portia  had  been  a  Christian,  and  lived  in  later  times,  she 
might  have  been  another  Lady  Russell ;  but  she  made  a  poor 
stoic.  No  factitious  or  external  control  was  sufficient  to  restrain 
such  an  exuberance  of  sensibility  and  fancy  :  and  those  who  praise 
the  philosophi/  of  Portia,  and  the  heroism  of  her  death,  certainly 
mistook  the  character  altogether.  It  is  evident  from  the  manner 
of  her  deach,  that  it  was  not  deliberate  self-destruction,  "  after  the 
high  Roman  fashion,"  but  took  place  in  a  paroxysm  of  madness, 
caused  by  over-wrought  and  suppressed  feeling,  grief,  terror,  and 
suspense.     Shakspeare   has   thus   represented   it : — 

BRUTUS. 

O  Cassius !  I  am  sick  of  many  griefs ! 

CAssrus. 

Of  your  philosophy  you  make  no  use, 
If  you  give  place  to  accidental   evils. 

BRUTUS. 

No  man  bears  sorrow  better;  Portia's  dead. 

CASSIUS. 

Ha !— Portia  ? 


•  When  at  Naples,  I  have  often  stood  upon  the  rock  at  tne  extreme  point  of 
Posilippo,  and  looked  down  upon  the  little  Island  of  Nisida,  and  thought  of  this 
scene  till  I  forgot  the  Lazaretto  which  now  deforms  it:  deforms  it,  however  to 
the  fancy  only,  for  the  building  itself,  as  it  rises  from  amid  the  vines,  the 
cypresses,   and  fig-trees  which  embosom  it,  looks  beautiful  at  a  distance. 


28a  P  O  R  T  I  A 


She  is  dead. 


How  'scap'd  I  killing  when  I  cross'd  you  so? 
O  insupportable  and  touching  loss — 
Upon  what  sickness  ? 


Impatient  of  my  absence, 
And  grief  that  young  Octavius  with  Mark  Antony 
Had  made  themselves  so  strong — (for  with  her  death 
These  tidings  came) — with  this  she  fell  distract 
And,  her  attendants  absent,  swallowed  fire. 


So  much  for  woman's  philosophy! 


MARGARET    OF    ANJOU. 


Malone  has  wnilen   an   essay,  to  prove  from  external  and  internal 
evidence,  that  the  three  parts  of  King  Henry  VL  were  not  originally 
written  by  Shakspeare,  but  altered  by  him  from  two  old  plays,*  with 
considerable   improvements  and  additions  of  his  own.     Burke,  Porson, 
Dr.  Warburton,  and    Dr.    Farmer,  pronounced  this    piece  of   criticism 
convincing    and    unanswerable;    but  Dr.  Johnson  and  Steevens    would 
not    be    convinced,    and,    moreover,    have    contrived    to    answer    the 
unanswerable.      "Who    shall  decide  when    doctors   disagreed'      The 
only    arbiter    in    such    a    case    is    one's    own    individual    taste    and 
judgment.     To  me  it  appears  that  the  three  parts  of  Henry  VI.  have 
less   of  poetry  and   passion,  and    more    of  unnecessary  verbosity    and 
inflated    language,    than    the    rest  of    Shakspeare's    works;    that    the 
continual  exhibition  of  treachery,  bloodshed,  and  violence,  is  revolting, 
and  the  want  of  unity  of  action,  and  of  a  prevailing  interest,  oppressive 
and  fatiguing ;  but  also,  that  there  are  splendid  passages  in  the  Second 
and   Third  Parts,  such  as   Shakspeare  alone    could  have  written:    and 
this  is  not  denied  by  the  most  sceptical.! 

•"The  contention  of  the  two  Houses  of  York  and  Lancaster,"  in  two  parts,  sup- 
posed by  Malone  to  have  been  written  about  1590. 

t  I  abstain  from  making  my  remarks  on  the  character  of  Joan  of  Arc,  as 
delineated  in  the  First  part  r.i  Henry  VI. ;  first,  because  I  do  not  in  my  conscience 
attribute  it  to  Shakspeare,  and  secondly,  because  in  representing  her  according  to 
the  vulvar  English  traditions,  as  half  sorceress,  half  enthusiast,  and,  in  tho  end, 
corrupted  by  pleasure  and  ambition,  the  truth  of  history,  and  the  truth  of  nature, 
justrce    ajid  common  sense,  am  equally  violated      Schiller  has  treated  the  character 

37 


290  M  A  R  G  A  il  i-:  T    O  F    A  N  J  O  l"  . 

Among    the  arguments    against  the  authenticity  of   theiie  plays,  the 
character    of   Margaret  of   Anjou  has    not   been    adduced,  and    yet  to 
those  who  have  studied    Shakspeare  in  his    own  spirit  it  will    appear 
the  most   conclusive  of   all.      \Vhen  we  compare  her    with  his    other 
female    characters,    we    are    struck    at    once    by  the    want    of    family 
likeness ;    Shakspeare    was    not    always    equal,  but    he    had    not   two 
manners,  as    they  say  of  painters.      I  discern    his    hand  in  particular 
parts,  but  I    cannot    recognize    his    spirit    in    the    conception    of    the 
whole  :    he  may  have    laid  on  some  of   the    colors,  but    the    original 
ilesign   has  a  certain    hardness    and    heaviness,  very  unlike    his    usual 
btyle.      Margaret    of  Anjou,    as    exhibited    in    these    tragedies,    is    a 
dramatic  portrait  of   considerable  truth,  and  vigor,  and    consistency — 
but    she  is  not  one  of   Shakspeare's  women.      He  who  knew  so  well 
in    wnat  true    greatness   of    spirit    consisted — who    could    excite    our 
respect    and   sympathy  even    for  a  Lady  Macbeth,  would   never    have 
given  us  a  heroine  without  a  touch  of  heroism ;    he  would  not  have 
portrayed  a    high-hearted    woman,    struggling   imsubdued    against    the 
strangest   vicissitudes  of  fortune,  meeting    reverses  and  disasters,  such 
as    would    have    broken    the    most    masculine    spirit,  with    unshaken 
constancy,   yet    left    her    without    a   single    personal    quality    which 
would   excite    our    interest    in    her   bravely-endured   misfortunes;    and 
this    too    in   the    very  face   of    history.      He   would  not    have   given 
us,   in  lieu   of  the   magnanimous  queen,  the   subtle  and   accomplished 
Frenchwoman,    a    mere    "  Amazonian      trull,"   with      every     coarser 
feature    of    depravity    and   ferocity;    he     would    have    redeemed    her 
from    unmingled     detestation;     he    would    have     breathed    into     her 


nobly:  but  in  making  Joan  the  slave  of  passion,  and  the  victim  of  love,  instead  of 
the  victim  of  patriotism,  has  committed,  I  think,  a  serious  errcr  in  judgment  and 
feeling ;  and  I  cannot  sympathize  with  Madame  de  Stael's  defence  of  him  on  this 
particular  point  There  was  no  occasion  for  this  deviation  from  the  truth  of  things, 
and  from  t)ie  dignity  and  spotless  purity  of  the  character.  This  young  enthusiast, 
with  her  religious  reveries,  her  simplicity,  her  heroism,  her  melancholy,  her  sensi- 
bility, her  fortitude,  her  perfectly  feminine  bearing  in  all  her  exploits  (for  though  she 
so  often  led  the  van  of  battle  unshrinking,  while  death  was  all  around  her,  she 
never  struck  a  blow,  nor  stained  her  consecrated  sword  with  blood, — another  point 
in  which  Schiller  has  wronged  her),  this  heroine  and  martyr,  over  whose  last 
moments  we  shed  burning  tears  of  pity  and  indignation,  remaina  yet  to  be  treated  as 
u  di-amatic  character,  and  I  know  but  one  person  capable  of  doing  this. 


MARGARET    OF    A  N  J  O  U  .  291 

some   of    his    own    sweet    spirit — he    would    have  given    the    woman 
a   soul. 

The  old  chronicler  Hall  informs  us  that  Queen  Margaret 
'•'  excelled  all  other  as  well  in  beauty  and  favor,  as  in  wit  and 
policy,  and  was  in  stomach  and  courage  more  like  to  a  man  than 
to  a  woman."  He  adds,  that  after  the  espousals  of  Henry  and 
Margaret,  "the  king's  friends  fell  from  him:  the  lords  of  the 
realm  fell  in  division  among  themselves;  the  Commons  rebelled 
against  their  natural  prince ;  fields  were  foughten ;  many  thousands 
slain;  and,  fmally,  the  king  was  deposed,  and  his  son  slain,  and 
his  queen  sent  home  again  with  as  much  misery  and  sorrow,  as 
she   was   received   with   pomp    and   triumph. " 

This    passage    seems   to    have    furnished     the    groundwork  of    the 

character    as  it   is    developed    in   these    plays   with   no    great    depth 

or    skill.      Margaret   is   portrayed    with   all    the   exterior    graces   of 

her    sex;    as   bold    and     artful,   with    spirit   to     dare,  resolution    to 

act,  and   fortitude  to    endure;    but   treacherous,   haughty,   dissembling, 

vindictive     and   fierce.      The    bloody   struggle    for    power    in   which 

she    was    eno-a"-ed,  and  the   companionship   of  the  i-uthless  iron  men 

around   her,   seem   to   have    left   her   nothing  of  womanhood   but   the 

heart   of    a    mother— that    last    stronghold   of   our   feminine    nature! 

So   far    the   character    is   consistently   drawn;    it    has   something    of 

the  power,  but   none   of    the   flowing   ease   of    Shakspeare's   mannar. 

There   are  fine  materials   not  well  applied;   there   is  poetry  in  some 

of    the   scenes    and    speeches;    the   situations  are    often    exceedingly 

poetical;    but   in     the    character    of    Margaret    herself    there   is   not 

an    atom  of    poetry.      In   her    artificial   dignity,   her    plausible    wit, 

and   her    endless   volubility,   she   would   remind   us   of    some    of    the 

most    admired    heroines    of    French    tragedy,    but    for    that    unkuky 

box     on    the    ear     which   she     gives     the    Duchess    of    Gloster,— a 

violation   of    tragic   decorum,   which   of    course   destroys   all  parallel. 

Havino-     said    thus    much,  I   shall    point  out    some   of    the   finest 

and    most    characteristic    scenes    in  which    Margaret    appears.      The 

speech   in  which  she   expresses  her   scorn   of  her  meek  husband,   and 

her    impatience    of  the   power   exercised   by   those   fierce  overbearing 

barons,    York,   Salisbuiy,   Warwick,   Buckingham,  is    very    fine,  and 

conveys  as   faithful  an   idea   of  those  feudal   times   as  of  the  womaji 


292  QUE  E  N    iM  A  R  G  A  II  E  T  . 

who  speaks.     The   burst   of  female   spite    with   which   she  concludes, 
is    admirable  — 

Not  all  these  lords  do  vex  me  half  so  much 

As  that  proud  dame,  the  Lord  Protector's  wife. 

She  sweeps  it  through  the  court  with  troops  of  ladies, 

More  like  an  empress  than  Duke  Humphrey's  wife. 

Strangers  in  court  do  take  her  for  the  queen : 

She  bears  a  duke's  revenues  on  her  back, 

And  in  her  heart  she  scorns  our  poverty. 

Shall  I  not  live  to  be  avenged  on  her? 

Contemptuous  base-born  callet  as  she  is ! 

She  vaunted  'mongst  her  minions  t  'other  day, 

The  very  train  of  her  worst  wearing  gown 

Was  better  worth  than  all  my  father's   lands. 

Till  Suffolk  gave  two  dukedoms  for  his  daughter. 

Her  intriguing  spirit,  the  facility  with  which  she  enters  into 
the  murderous  confederacy  against  the  good  Duke  Humphrey, 
the  artful  plausibility  with  which  she  endeavors  to  turn  suspicion 
from  herself — confounding  her  gentle  consort  by  mere  dint  of 
words — are   exceedingly   characteristic,  but    not   the   less   revolting. 

Her  criminal  love  for  Suffolk  (which  is  a  dramatic  incident, 
not  an  historic  fact)  gives  rise  to  the  beautiful  parting  scene  in 
the  third  act  ;  a  scene  which  it  is  impossible  to  read  without 
a  thrill  of  emotion,  hurried  away  by  that  power  and  pathos  which 
forces  us  to  sympathize  with  the  eloquence  of  grief,  yet  excites 
not  a  momentary  interest  either  for  Margaret  or  her  lover.  The 
ungoverned  fury  of  Margaret  in  the  first  instance,  the  manner  in 
which  she  calls  on  Suffolk  to  curse  his  enemies,  and  then  shrinks 
back  overcome  by  the  violence  of  the  spirit  she  had  herself 
evoked,  and  terrified  by  the  vehemence  of  his  imprecations;  the 
transition  in  her  mind  from  the  extremity  of  rage  and  tears  and 
melting  fondness,  have  been  pronounced,  and  justly,  to  be  In 
Shakspeare's   own  manner. 

Go,  speak  not  to  me — even  now  begone. 

O  go  not  yet !     Even  thus  two  friends  condemn'd 

Embrace,  and  kiss,  and  take  ten  thousand  leaves, 


293 


QUEEN    M  A  R  O  A  R  E  T . 

Leather  a  hundred  times  to  part  than  die  : 
Yet  now  farewell ;  and  farewell  life  with  thee ! 

which    is    followed    by   that  beautiful  and    intense   burst   of    passion 
from  Suffolk — 

'Tis  not  the  hand  I  care  for,  wert  thou  hence  ; 

A  wilderness  is  populous  enough, 

So  Suffolk  had  thy  heavenly  company : 

For  where  thou  art,  there   is  the  world  itself, 

With  every  several  pleasure  in  the  world; 

And  where  thou  art  not,  desolation ! 

In   the   third  part  of  Henry  the    Sixth,  Margaret,    engaged    in    the 
terrible    strno-o-le    for    her    husband's    throne,   appears    to  rather   more 
advantage.     The  indignation  against  Henry,  who  had  pitifully  yielded 
his  son's  birthright   for   the    privilege  of  reigning   unmolested   during 
his    own    life,   is    worthy    of    her,    and    gives    rise    to   a    beautiful 
speech      We   are   here   inclined  to  sympathize  with   her;    but    soon 
.fter    follows    the    murder    of     the    Duke    of   York;    and    the    base 
veveno-eful    spirit   and  atrocious   cruelty  with    which    she  insults   over 
him,  unarmed    and    a   prisoner,-the   bitterness    of  her   mockery    and 
the    unwomanly   malignity    with    which    she    presents   him    with   the 
napkin   stained   with  the  blood  "of  his   youngest  son,  and      bids  the 
father   wipe  his   eyes  withal,"   tttrn   all   our    sympathy  into  aversion 
and   horror.     York  replies   in  the   celebrated   speech,  beginmng- 

She-wolf  of  France,  and  worse  than  wolves  of  France, 
Whose  tongue  more  poisons  than  the  adder's  tooth— 

and    taunts   her    with  the   poverty  of  her   father,  the   most    irritating 
topic  he   could  have    chosen- 

Ilath  tliat  poor  monarch  taught  thee  to  insult  ? 
It  needs  not,  nor  it  boots  thee  not,  proud  queen, 
Unless  the  adage  must  be  verified, 
That  beggars,  mounted,  ride  their  horse  to  death. 
'Tis  beauty,  that  doth  oft  make  women  proud ; 


204  Q  i:  E  EN    MARGARET. 

But,  God  he  knows,  thy  share  thereof  is  small. 
'Tis  virtue  that  doth  make  them  most  admired ; 
Tlic  contrary  doth  make   thee  wondered  at. 
'Tis  government  that  makes  them  seem  divine, 
The  want  thereof  makes  thee  abominable. 

4:  ^  4:  ^  %  % 

O  tiger's  heart,  wrapped  in  a  \\oman's  hide ! 
How  could'st  thou  drain  the  life-blood  of  the  child 
To  bid  the  father  wipe  his  face  withal, 
And  yet  be  seen  to  bear  a  woman's  face  ? 
Women  are  soft,  mild,  pitiful  and  flexible, 
Ti)ou  stern,  obdurate,  flinty,  rougli,  remorseless  ' 

By  such  a  woman  as  Margaret  is  here  depicted  such  a  speech 
could  be  answered  only  in  one  way — with  her  dagger's  point — and 
thus    she    answers    it. 

It  is  some  comfort  to  reflect  that  this  trait  of  ferocity  is  not 
historical :  the  body  of  the  Duke  of  York  was  found,  after  the 
battle,  among  the  heaps  of  slain,  and  his  head  struck  off:  but 
even   this   was   not   done   by   the   command    of  Margaret. 

In  another  passage,  the  -truth  and  consistency  of  the  character 
01  ^.hugaret  are  sacrificed  to  the  march  of  the  dramatic  action, 
with  a  very  ill  effect.  When  her  fortunes  were  at  the  very 
lowest  ebb,  and  she  had  sought  refuge  in  the  court  of  the  French 
king,  Warwick,  her  most  formidable  enemy,  upon  some  disgust  he 
had  taken  against  Edward  the  Fourth,  offered  to  espouse  her 
cause ;  and  proposed  a  match  between  the  prince  her  son  and 
his  daughter  Anne  of  Warwick — the  "  gentle  Lady  Anne,"  who 
figures  in  Richard  the  Thi:d.  In  the  play,  Margaret  embraces 
the  offer  without  a  moment's  hesitation:*  we  are  disgusted  by  her 
versatile  policy,  and  a  meanness  of  spirit  in  no  way  allied  to  the 
magnanimous  forgiveness  of  her  terrible  adversaiy.  The  Margaret 
of  history   sternly  resisted   this   degrading  expedient.     She  coald   not. 

•See  Henry  VI.,  Part  III.,  Act.  iii.,  sc.  o'— 

QUEEN    SI.IRGARET. 

Warwick,  these  words  have  turned  my  halt  to  love. 
And  I  forgive  and  quite  forget  old  fauJst, 
And  joy,  that  thou  becom'st  King  Henry's  friend 


QUEEN    M  A  R  G  A  R  E  T  .  ClU*. 

she  said,  pardon  from  her  heart  the  man  who  had  been  the 
primary  cause  of  all  her  misfortunes.  S/ie  mistrusted  Warwick, 
despised  him  for  the  motives  of  liis  revolt  from  Edward,  and 
considered  that  to  match  her  son  into  the  family  of  her  enemy 
from  mere  policy,  was  a  species  of  degradation.  It  took  Louis 
the  Eleventh,  with  all  his  art  and  eloquence,  fifteen  days  to  wring 
a  reluctant  consent,  accompanied  with  tears,  from  this  high-hearted 
woman. 

The  speech  of  Margaret  to  her  council  of  generals  before  the 
battle  of  Tewkesbury  (Act  v.,  scene  5),  is  as  remarkable  a  specimen 
of  false  rhetoric,  as  her  address  to  the  soldiers  on  the  eve  of  the 
fight,   is    of  true    and   passionate    eloquence. 

She  witnesses  the  final  defeat  of  her  army,  the  massacre  of  her 
adherents,  and  the  murder  of  her  son ;  and  though  the  savao-e 
Richard  would  willingly  have  put  an  end  to  her  misery,  and 
exclaims   very   pertinently — 

Why  should  she  live  to  fill  the  world  with  words  ? 

she  is  dragged  forth  unharmed,  a  woful  spectacle  of  extreme 
wretchedness,  to  which  death  would  have  been  an  undeserved  relief. 
If  w^e  compare  the  clamorous  and  loud  exclaims  of  Margaret  after 
the  slaughter  of  her  son,  to  the  ravino;s  of  Constance,  we  shall 
perceive  where  Shakspeare's  genius  did  not  preside,  and  where  it 
did.  Margaret,  in  bold  defiance  of  history,  but  with  fine  dramatic 
effect,  is  introduced  again  in  the  gorgeous  and  polluted  court  of 
Edward  the  Fourth.  There  she  stalks  around  the  seat  of  her 
former  greatness,  like  a  terrible  phantom  of  departed  majestv, 
uncrowned,  unsceptred,  desolate,  powerless — or  like  a  vampire  thirsting 
for  blood — or  like  a  grim  prophetess  of  evi],  imprecating  that  ruin 
on  the  head  of  her  enemies  which  she  lives  to  see  realized,  'i'he 
scene  following  the  murder  of  the  princes  in  tlie  Tower,  in  whiih 
Queen  Elizabeth  and  the  Duchess  of  York  sit  down  on  the  groumi 
bewailing  their  desolation,  and  Margaret  sudJenly  appears  from 
behind  them,  like  the  very  personification  of  woe,  and  seats  herself 
beside  them  revelling  in  their  despair,  is,  in  the  general  conception 
and   etfeot,  grand  and  appalling. 


296  QUEEN    MARGARET 


THE    DUCHESS. 

O,  Harry's  wife,  triumph  not  in  my  woes; 
God  witness  with  me,  I  have  wept  for  thino  I 

QUEEN   MARGARET. 

Bear  with  me,  I  am  hungry  for  revenge, 

And  now  I  cloy  me  with  beholding  it. 

Thy  Edward  he  is  dead,  lliat  kill'd  my  Edward ; 

Thy  otlicr  Edward  dead,  to  quit  my  Edward : 

Young  York  he  is  but  boot,  because  both  they 

Match  not  the  high  perfection  of  my  less. 

Thy  Clarence  he  is  dead,  that  stabb'd  my  Edward  ? 

And  the  beholders  of  this  tragic  play. 

The  adulterate  Hastings,  Rivers,  Vaughan,  Grey, 

Untimely  smother'd  in  their  dusky  graves. 

Richard  yet  lives,  hell's  black  intelligencer, 

Only  reserv'd  their  factor,  ^o  buy  souls 

And  send  them  thither.     But  at  hand,  at  hand, 

Ensues  his  piteous  and  unpitied  end ; 

Earth  gapes,  hell  burns,  fiends  roar  for  him ;  saints  pr: 

To  have  him  suddenly  convey'd  from  hence. 

Cancel  his  bond  of  life,  dear  god,  I  pray, 

That  I  may  live  to  say,  The  dog  is  dead.* 

She  should  have  stopped  here  ;  but  the  effect  thus  powerfully 
excited  is  marred  and  weakened  by  so  much  superfluous  rhetoric, 
that  we   are  tempted  to   exclaim  with   the   old   Duchess  of   York — 

Why  should  calamity  be  full  of  words  ? 


•  Horace  Walpole  observes,  that  "  it  is  evident  from  the  conduct  of  Shakspeare, 
that  the  house  of  Tudor  retained  all  their  Lancasterian  prejudices  even  in  the  reign 
of  Queen  Elizabeth.  In  his  play  of  Richard  the  Third,  he  seems  to  deduce  the 
woes  of  the  house  of  York  from  the  curses  which  Queen  Margaret  had  vented 
against  them  ;  and  he  could  not  give  that  weight  to  her  curses,  without  supposing 
a  right  in  her  to  utter  them." 


QUEEN KATHERINE   OF   ARRAGON. 


To  have  a  just  idea  of  the  accuracy  and  beauty  of  this  historical 
portrait,  we  ought  to  bring  immediately  before  us  those  circumstances 
of  Katherine's  life  and  times,  and  those  parts  of  her  character, 
which  belong  to  a  period  previous  to  the  opening  of  the  play.  We 
shall  then  be  better  able  to  appreciate  the  skill  with  which 
Shakspeare   has    applied   the   materials   before  him. 

Katherine  of  Arragon,  the  fourth  and  youngest  daughter  of 
Ferdinand  king  of  Arragon,  and  Isabella  of  Castile,  was  born  at 
Alcala,  whither  her  mother  had  retired  to  winter  after  one  of  the 
most   terrible    campaigns   of  the   Moorish   war — that   of   1485. 

Katherine  had  derived  from  nature  no  dazzling  qualities  of  mind, 
and  no  striking  advantages  of  person.  She  inherited  a  tincture  of 
Queen  Isabella's  haughtiness  and  obstinacy  of  temper,  but  neither 
her  beauty  nor  her  splendid  talents.  Her  education  midcr  the 
direction  of  that  extraordinary  mother,  had  implanted  in  her  mind 
the  most  austere  principles  of  virtue,  the  highest  ideas  of  female 
decorum,  the  most  narrow  and  bigoted  attachment  to  the  forms  of 
religion,  and  that  excessive  pride  of  birth  and  rank  which 
distinguished  so  particularly  her  family  and  her  nation.  In  other 
respects,  her  understanding  was  strong,  and  her  judgment  clear. 
The  natural  turn  of  her  mind  was  simple,  serious  and  domestic, 
and  all  the  impulses  of  her  heart  kindly  and  benevolent.  Such 
was   Katherine ;    such,    at    least,   she    appears   on    a   reference  to   the 


298  K  A  T  H  E  R  1  X  i:    O  F     A  R  R  A  G  O  X  . 

chronicles  of  her  times,  and  particularly  from  her  own  ktleis,  and 
/  the  papers  written  or  dictated  hy  herself  \vhich  relate  to  her 
divorce ;  all  of  which  are  distinguished  by  the  same  artless 
simplicity  of  style,  the  same  quiet  good  sense,  the  same  resolute, 
yet    gentle    spirit   and   fervent   piety. 

When  five  years  old,  Katherine  was  solemnly  affianced  to  Arthur, 
Prince  of  Wales,  the  eldest  son  of  Henry  VII. ;  and  in  the  year 
1501,  she  landed  in  England,  after  narrowly  escaping  shipwreck 
on  the  southern  coast,  from  which  every  adverse  wind  conspired  to 
drive  her.  She  was  received  in  London  with  great  honor,  and 
immediately  on  her  arrival  united  to  the  young  prince.  He  was 
then   fifteen,   and   Katherine   in   her   seventeenth   year. 

Arthur,  as  it  is  well  known,  survived  his  marriage  only  five 
months;  and  the  reluctance  of  Henry  VII.  to  refund  the  splendid 
dowry  of  the  Infanta,  and  forego  the  advantages  of  an  alliance 
with  the  most  powerful  prince  of  Europe,  suggested  the  idea  of 
uniting  Katherine  to  his  second  son  Henry ;  after  some  hesitation, 
a  dispensation  was  procured  from  the  Pope,  and  she  was  betrothed 
to  Henry  in  her  eighteenth  year.  The  prince,  who  was  then  only 
twelve  years  old,  resisted  as  far  as  he  was  able  to  do  so,  and 
appears  to  have  really  felt  a  degree  of  horror  at  the  idea  of 
marrying  his  brother's  widow.  Nor  was  the  mind  of  King  Henry 
at  rest;  as  his  health  declined,  his  conscience  reproached  him 
with  the  equivocal  nature  of  the  union  into  which  he  had  forced 
his  son ;  and  the  vile  motives  of  avarice  and  expediency  which 
had  governed  him  on  this  occasion.  A  short  time  previous  to  his 
death,  he  dissolved  the  engagement,  and  even  caused  Henry  to 
sign  a  paper,  in  which  he  solemnly  renounced  all  idea  of  a  future 
union  with  the  Infanta.  It  is  observable,  that  Henry  signed  this 
paper  with  reluctance,  and  that  Katherine,  instead  of  being  sent 
back   to    her   own    country,  still  remained  in  England. 

It  appears  that  Henry,  who  was  now^  about  seventeen,  had  become 
interested  for  Katherine,  who  was  gentle  and  amiable.  The  difference 
of  years  was  rather  a  circumstance  in  her  favor;  iior  Henry  was  just 
at  that  age,  when  a  youth  is  most  likely  to  be  captivated  by  a  woman 
older  than  himself;  and  no  sooner  was  he  required  to  renounce  her, 
than  the  interest  she  had  gradually    gained    in    his  affections,  became. 


K  A  T  H  E  11 1  N  E    OF    A  R  R  A  G  O  N  .  299 

by  opposition,  a  strong  passion.  Immediately  after  his  father's  death 
he  declared  his  resolution  to  take  for  his  wife  the  Lady  Katherine 
of  Spain,  and  none  other;  and  when  the  matter  was  discussed  in 
council,  it  was  urged  that,  besides  the  many  advantages  of  the  match 
in  a  political  point  of  view,  she  had  given  so  "  much  proof  of 
virtue,  and  sweetness  of  condition,  as  they  knew  not  where  to 
parallel  her."  About  six  wrecks  after  his  accession,  June  3,  1509, 
the  marriage  was  celebrated  with  truly  royal  splendor,  Henry  beinrr 
then  eighteen,  and  Katherine  in  her  twenty-fourth  year. 

It  has  been  said  with  truth,  that  if  Henry  had  died  while 
Katherine  was  yet  his  wife,  and  Wolsey  his  minister,  he  would  have 
left  behind  him  the  character  of  a  magnificent,  popular  and 
accomplished  prince,  instead  of  that  of  the  most  hateful  ruffian  and 
tyrant  who  ever  swayed  these  realms.  Notwithstanding  his  occasional 
infidelities,  and  his  impatience  at  her  midnight  vigils,  her  lono- 
prayers,  and  her  religious  austerities,  Katherine  and  Henry  lived  in 
harmony  together.  He  was  fond  of  openly  displaying  his  respect 
and  love  for  her;  and  she  exercised  a  strong  and  salutary  influence 
over  his  turbulent  and  despotic  spirit.  When  Henry  set  out  on  his 
expedition  to  France,  in  1513,  he  left  Katherine  regent  of  the 
kingdom  during  his  absence,  with  full  powers  to  carry  on  the  war 
against  the  Scots;  and  the  Earl  of  Surry  at  the  head  of  the  army, 
as  her  lieutenant-general.  It  is  curious  to  find  Katherine — the  pacific, 
domestic,  and  unpretending  Katherine — describing  herself  as  having 
''  her  heart  set  to  war,"  and  "  horrible  busy"  with  making  "  standards, 
banners,  badges,  scarfs,  and  the  like."*  Nor  was  this  mere  silken 
preparation — mere  dalliance  with  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  war ; 
for  within  a  few  weeks  afterwards,  her  general  defeated  the  Scots  in 
the  famous  battle  of  Flodden-field,  where  James  IV.  and  most  of  his 
nobility  were  slain.f 

Katherine's    letter    to    Henry,  announcing    this   event,  so    strikingly 
displays    the    piety    and    tenderness,    the    quiet   simplicity,    and    real 


*  See  her  letters  in  Ellis's  Collection. 

t  Under  similar  circumstances,  one  of  Katherine's  predecessors,  Philippa  of 
Hainault,  had  gained  in  her  husband's  absence  the  battle  of  Neville  Cross,  in  which 
David  Bruce  was  taken  prisoner. 


300  tv  A  T  H  E  R  I  N  E    O  F    A  R  II  A  G  O  X  . 

magnanimity  of  her  character,  that  there  cannot  be  a  more  apt  and 
beautiful  illustration  of  the  exquisite  truth  and  keeping  of 
Shakspeare's   portrait. 

SiK, 

My  Lord  Howard  hath  sent  me  a  letter,  open  to  your  Grace, 
within  one  of  mine,  by  the  which  ye  shall  see  at  length  the  great 
victory  that  our  Lord  hath  sent  your  subjects  in  your  absence :  and 
for  this  cause,  it  is  no  need  herein  to  trouble  your  Grace  with  long 
writing ;  but  to  my  thinking  this  battle  hath  been  to  your  Grace, 
and  all  your  realm,  the  greatest  honor  that  could  be,  and  more  than 
ye  should  win  all  the  crown  of  France,  thanked  be  God  for  it ! 
And  I  am  sure  your  Grace  forgetteth  not  to  do  this,  which  shall  be 
cause  to  send  you  many  more  such  great  victories,  as  I  trust  he  shall  do. 
My  husband,  for  haste,  with  Rougecross,  I  could  not  send  your  Grace 
the  piece  of  the  king  of  Scots'  coat,  which  John  Glyn  now  bringeth. 
In  this  your  grace  shall  see  how  I  can  keep  my  promise,  sending 
you  for  your  banners  a  king's  coat.  I  thought  to  send  himself  unto 
you,  but  our  Englishmen's  hearts  would  not  suffer  it.  It  should  have 
))een  better  for  him  to  have  been  in  peace  than  have  this  reward, 
>iut  all  that  God  sendeth  is  for  the  best.  My  Lord  of  Surry,  my 
Henry,  would  fain  know  your  pleasure  in  the  burying  of  the  king  of 
Scots'  body,  for  he  hath  written  to  me  so.  With  the  next  messenger, 
your  Grace's  pleasure  may  be  herein  known.  And  with  this  I  make 
an  end,  praying  God  to  send  you  home  shortly ;  for  without  this,  no 
joy  here  can  be  accomplished — and  for  the  same  I  pray.  And  now 
go  to  our  Lady  at  Walsyngham,  that  I  promised  so   long  ago  to  see. 

At  Woburn,  the  16th  day  of  .September  (1513). 

I  send  your  Grace  herein  a  bill,  found  in  a  Scottishman's  purse,  of 
such  things  as  the  French  king  sent  to  the  said  king  of  Scots, 
to  make  war  against  you,  beseeching  you  to  send  Mathew  hither  as 
soon  as  this  messenger  cometh  with   tidings  of  your  Grace. 

Your  humble  wife  and  true  servant, 
Katherine.* 

•  Ellis's  Collection.  We  must  keep  in  mind  that  Katherine  was  a  foreigner,  and 
till  after  she  was  seventeen,  never  spoke  or  wrote  a  word  of  Englisli 


K  A  T  11  E  R  I  -\  ]•:    ()  !•     A  II  R  A  (i  O  N  .  301 

The  legality  of  the  king's  marriage  with  Katherine  remained 
undisputed  till  15-27.  In  the  course  of  that  year,  Anna  Bullen  first 
appeared  at  court,  and  was  appointed  maid  of  honor  to  the  queen  ; 
and  then,  and  not  till  tlien,  did  Henry's  union  with  his  brother's 
wife  '•  creep  too  near  his  conscience."  in  the  following  year,  he  sent 
special  messengers  to  Rome,  with  secret  instructions :  they  were 
required  to  discover  (among  other  "  hard  questions")  whether,  if  the 
queen  entered  a  religious  life,  the  king  might  have  the  Pope's 
dispensation  to  marry  again  ;  and  whether  if  the  king  (for  the  better 
inducing  the  queen  thereto)  would  enter  himself  into  a  religious  life, 
the  Pope  would  dispense  with  the  king's  vow,  and   leave   her  there  ? 

Poor  Katherine !  we  are  not  surprised  to  read  that  when  she 
understood  what  was  intended  against  her,  "she  labored  with  all 
those  passions  which  jealousy  of  the  king's  affection,  sense  of  her 
own  honor,  and  the  legitimation  of  her  daughter,  could  produce, 
laying  in  conclusion  the  whole  fault  on  the  Cardinal."  It  is  else- 
where said,  that  Wolsey  bore  the  queen  ill-will,  in  consequence  of 
her  reflecting  with  some  severity  on  his  haughty  temper,  and  very 
unclerical  life. 

The  proceedings  were  pendhig  for  nearly  six  years,  and  one  of  the 
causes  of  this  long  delay,  in  spite  of  Henry's  impatient  and  despotic 
character,  is  worth  noting.  The  old  Chronicle  tells  us,  that  though 
the  men  generally,  and  more  particularly  the  priests  and  the  nobles, 
sided  with  Henry  in  this  matter,  yet  all  the  ladies  of  England  were 
against  it.  They  justly  felt  that  the  honor  and  welfare  of  no  woman 
was  secure  if,  after  twenty  years  •  of  union,  she  might  be  thus 
deprived  of  all  her  rights  as  a  wife ;  the  clamor  became  so  loud  and 
general,  that  the  king  was  obliged  to  yield  to  it  for  a  time,  to  stop 
the  proceedings,  and  to  banish  Anna  Bullen  from  the  court. 

Cardinal  Campeggio,  called  by  Shakspeare  Campeius,  arrived  in 
England  in  October,  1528.  He  at  first  endeavored  to  persuade 
Katherine  to  avoid  the  disgrace  and  danger  of  contesting  her 
marriage,  by  entering  a  religious  house  ;  but  she  rejected  his  advice 
with  strong  expressions  of  disdain.  "I  am,"  said  she,  "  tiie  king's 
true  wife  and  to  him  married ;  and  if  all  doctors  were  dead,  or  law 
or  learning  far  out  of  men's  minds  at  the  time  of  our  marriage,  yet 
I    cannot    think    that    the    court  of  Rome,  and    the  whole  church   of 


302  K  A  T  II  I-:  R  I  N  E    O  F    A  II  11  A  (J  O  N  . 

England,  would  have  consented  to  a  thing  unlawful  and  detestabiC  as 
you  call  it.     Still  I  say  I  am  his  wife,  and  for  him  will  I  pray." 

About  two  years  afterwards,  Wolsey  died  (in  November,  1530): 
— the  king  and  queen  met  for  the  last  time  on  the  14th  of  July, 
1531.  Until  that  period,  some  outward  show  of  respect  and 
kindness  had  been  maintained  between  them ;  but  the  kinff  then 
ordered  her  to  repair  to  a  private  residence,  and  no  longer  to 
consider  herself  as  his  lawful  wife.  "  To  which  the  virtuous  and 
mourning  queen  replied  no  m.ore  than  this,  that  to  whatever 
place  she  removed,  nothing  could  remove  her  from  being  the 
king's  wife.  And  so  they  bid  each  other  farewell,  and  from  this 
time  the  king  never  saw  her  more.  *  He  married  Anna  Bullen 
in  1532,  while  the  decision  relating  to  his  former  marriage  was 
still  pending.  The  sentence  of  divorce,  to  which  Katherine  never 
W'Ould  submit,  was  finally  pronounced  by  Cranmer  in  1533 ;  and 
the  unhappy  queen,  whose  health  had  been  gradually  declining 
through  these  troubles  of  heart,  died  January  29,  1536,  in  the 
fiftieth   year   of  her   age. 

Thus  the  action  of  the  play  of  Henry  VIII.  includes  events 
v.hi.h  occurred  from  the  impeachment  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham 
in  1521,  lo  the  death  of  Katherine  in  1536.  In  making  the 
death  of  Katherine  precede  the  birth  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  Shakspeare 
has  committed  an  anachronism,  not  only  pardonable  but  necessary. 
We  must  remember  that  the  construction  of  the  play  required  a 
happy  termination ;  and  that  the  birth  of  Elizabeth,  before  or 
after  the  death  of  Katherine,  involved  the  question  of  her  legitimacy. 
By  this  slight  deviation  from  the  real  course  of  events,  Shakspeare 
has  not  perverted  historic  facts,  but  merely  sacrificed  them  to  a 
higher  principle  ;  and  in  doing  so  has  not  only  preserved  dramatic 
propriety,  and  heightened  the  poetical  interest,  but  has  given  a 
strong   proof  both   of  his   delicacy    and   his  judgment. 

If  "we  also  call  to  mind  that  in  this  play  Katherine  is  properly 
the  heroine,  and  exhibited  from  first  to  last  as  the  very  "  queen 
of  earthly  queens ; "  that  the  whole  interest  is  thrown  round  her  and 
Wolsey — the  one  the   injured  rival,   the   other  the   enemy  of    Anna 

•  Hall's   Chronicle. 


K  A  T  H  E  R  1  N  E    O  F    A  R  R  A  (>  O  N  .  33y 

Bullen — and  that  it  was  written  in  the  reign  and  for  the  court 
of  Elizabeth,  we  shall  yet  farther  appreciate  the  moral  greatness 
of  the  poet's  mind,  which  disdained  to  sacrifice  justice  and  the 
truth  of  nature   to    any   time-serving   expediency. 

Schlegel  observes  somewhere,  that  in  the  literal  accuracy  and 
apparent  artlessness  with  which  Shakspeare  has  adapted  some  of 
the  events  and  characters  of  history  to  his  draaiatic  purposes,  he 
has  shown  equally  his  genius  and  his  wisdom.  This,  like  most 
of  Schlegel's  remarks,  is  profound  and  true ;  aiul  in  this  respect 
Katherine  of  Arragon  may  rank  as  the  triumph  of  Shakspeare's 
genius  and  wisdom.  There  is  nothing  in  the  whole  rau'Te  of 
poetical  fiction  in  any  respect  resembling  or  approaching  her ;  there 
is  nothing  comparable,  I  suppose,  but  Katherina's  own  portrait  by 
Holbein,  which,  equally  true  to  the  life,  is  yet  as  far  inferior  as 
Katherine's  person  was  inferior  to  her  mind.  Not  only  has 
Shakspeare  given  us  here  a  delineation  as  faithful  as  it  is  beautiful, 
of  a  peculiar  modification  of  character;  but  he  has  bequeathed 
us  a  precious  moral  lesson  in  this  proof  that  virtue  alone — 
(by  which  I  mean  here  the  union  of  truth  or  conscience  with 
benevolent  affection — the  one  the  highest  law,  the  other  the  purest 
impulse  of  the  soul),  that  such  virtue  is  a  sufficient  source  of  the 
deepest  pathos  and  power  without  any  mixture  of  foreio-n  or 
external  ornament;  for  who  but  Shakspeare  would  have  brought 
before  us  a  queen  and  a  heroine  of  tragedy,  stripped  her  of  all 
pomp  of  place  and  circumstance,  dispensed  with  all  the  usual 
sources  of  poetical  interest,  as  youth,  beauty,  grace,  fancy, 
commanding  intellect ;  and  without  any  appeal  to  our  imagination, 
without  any  violation  of  historical  truth,  or  any  sacrifices  of  the 
other  dramatic  personages  for  the  sake  of  effect,  couhl  depend  on 
the  moral  principle  alone,  to  touch  the  very  springs  of  feeling  in 
our  bosoms,  and  melt  and  elevate  our  hearts  through  the  purest 
and    holiest   impulses    of    our   nature ! 

The  character,  when  analysed,  is,  in  the  first  place,  distinf>;uislicd 
\ry  truth.  I  do  not  only  mean  its  truth  to  nature,  or  its  relative 
truth  arising  from  its  historic  fidelity  and  dramatic  consistency,  but 
truth  as  a  quality  of  the  soul  ;  this  is  the  basis  of  the  character. 
We  often    hear  it    remarked    that   those  who  are  tliemselves  perfectly 


304  K  A  T  fl  E  R  I  N  E    OF    A  R  R  A  G  O  N  . 

true  and  artless,  are  in  this  world  the  more  easily  and  frequently 
deceived — a  common-place  fallacy  :  for  \<e  shall  ever  find  that  truth 
is  as  undeceived  as  it  is  undeceiving,  and  that  those  who  are  true  to 
themselves  and  others,  may  now  and  then  be  mistaken,  or  in 
particular  instances  duped  by  the  intervention  of  some  other  affection 
or  quality  of  the  mind  ;  but  they  are  generally  free  from  illusion,  and 
they  are  seldom  imposed  upon  in  the  long  run  by  the  shows  of 
things  and  superfices  of  characters.  It  is  by  this  integrity  of  heart 
and  clearness  of  understanding,  this  light  of  truth  within  her  own 
soul,  and  not  through  any  acuteness  of  intellect,  that  Katherine 
detects  and  exposes  the  real  character  of  Wolsey,  though  unable 
either   to  unravel  his  designs,  or  defeat  them. 

My  lord,  my  lord. 
I  am  a  simple  woman,  much  too  weak 
T'  oppose  your  cunning. 

She  rather  intuitively  feels  than  knows  his  duplicity,  and  in  the 
dignity  of  her  simplicity  she  towers  above  his  arrogance  as  much  as 
she  scorns  his  crooked  policy.  With  this  essential  truth  are  combined 
many  other  qualities,  natural  or  acquired,  all  made  out  with  the 
same  uncompromising  breadth  of  execution  and  fidelity  of  pencil, 
united  with  the  utmost  delicacy  of  feeling.  For  instance,  the 
apparent  contradiction  arising  from  the  contrast  between  Katherine's 
natural  disposition  and  the  situation  in  which  she  is  placed ;  her 
lofty  Castilian  pride  and  her  extreme  simplicity  of  language  and 
deportment ;  thq  inflexible  resolution  with  which  she  asserts  her  right, 
and  her  s'oft  resignation  to  unkindness  and  wrong  ;  her  warmth  of 
temper  breaking  through  the  meekness  of  a  spirit  subdued  by  a  deep 
sense  of  religion ;  and  a  degree  of  austerity  tinging  her  real 
benevolence; — all  these  qualities,  opposed  yet  harmonising,  has 
Shakspeare   placed   before   us    in    a   few   admirable  scenes. 

Katherine  is  at  first  introduced  as  pleading  before  the  king  in 
behalf  of  the  commonalty,  who  had  been  driven  by  the  extortions 
of  Wolsey  into  some  illegal  excesses.  In  this  scene,  which  is 
true  to  history,  w^e  have  her  upright  reasoning  mind,  her  steadiness 
of  purpose,    her   'piety    and   benevolence,   placed    in    a    strong    light 


K  A  T  H  E  R  I  N  E    OF    A  R  R  A  G  O  N  .  305 

The  unshrinking  dignity  with  which  she  opposes  without  descending 
to  brave  the  Cardinal,  the  stern  rebuke  addressed  to  the  Duke  of 
Buckingham's  surveyor,  are  finely  characteristic;  and  by  thus 
exhibiting  Katherine  as  invested  with  all  her  conjugal  rights  and 
influence,  and  royal  state,  the  subsequent  situations  are  rendered 
more  impressive.  She  is  placed  in  the  first  instance  on  such  a 
height  in  our  esteem  and  reverence,  that  in  the  midst  of  her 
abandonment  and  degradation,  and  the  profound  pity  she  afterwards 
inspires,  the  first  effect  remains  unimpaired,  and  she  never  falls 
beneath   it. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  second  act  we  are  prepared  for  the 
proceedings  of  the  divorce,  and  our  respect  for  Katherine  heightened 
by  the  general  sympathy  for  "  the  good  queen,"  as  she  is  expressly 
entitled,  and  by  the  following  beautiful  eulogium  on  her  character 
uttered  by  the  Duke   of   Norfolk. 


He  (VVoIsey)  counsels  a  divorce— the  loss  of  her 
That  like  a  jewel  hath   hung  twenty  years 
About  his   neck,  yet  never  lost   her  lustre. 
Of  her  that  loves   him   with  that  excellence 
That  angels  love  good   men  with.     Even  of  her, 
That  when  the  greatest  stroke  of  fortune  falls, 
Will  bless  the  Kinjr ! 


The  scene  in  which   Anna  Bullen   is  introduced   as  expressino-  het 
grief  and  sympathy  for  her  royal  mistress  is  exquisitely  graceful. 


Here's  the  pang  that   pinches: 
His  highness  having  liv'd  so  long  with  her,  and  she 
So  good  a  lady,  that  no   tongue   could   ever 
Pronounce  dishonor  of  her, — by   my  life 
She  never  knew  harm  doing.     O  now,  after 
So  many  courses  of   the  sun  enthron'd. 
Still  growing  in  a  majesty  and   pomp, — the   which 
To  leave  is  a  thousand-fold   more   bitter,  than 
'Tis  sweet  at  first  to  acquire.    After  this   process, 
To  give  her  the  avaunt !  it  is  a  pity 
Would  move  a  mnnstcr, 
39 


:m)')  katherine  of  ARRAGON 


OLD    LADY. 


Hearts  of  most  hard  temper 
Melt  and  lament  for  her. 


O   God's  will !   much  better 
She  ne'er  had  known  pomp :  though  it  be  temporaj, 
Yet  if  that  quarrel,   fortune,  do  divorce 
It  from  the  bearer,  'tis   a  sufferance,  panging 
As  soul  and  body's   severing. 

OLD   LADT. 

Alas,  poor  lady ! 
She's  a  stranger  now  again. 


So  much  the  more 
Must  pity  drop  upon  her.     Verily, 
I  swear  'tis  better  to  be  lowly  born, 
And  range  with  humble  livers  in   content, 
Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  a  glistering  grief, 
And  wear  a  golden   sorrow. 

How  completely,  in  the  few  passages  appropriated  to  Anna  Bullen, 
is  her  character  portrayed !  with  what  a  delicate  and  yet  luxuriant 
grace  is  she  sketched  off,  with  her  gaiety  and  her  beauty,  her 
levity,  her  extreme  mobility,  her  sweetness  of  disposition,  her 
tenderness  of  heart,  and,  in  short,  all  her  fcmalities !  How  nobly 
has  Shakspeare  done  justice  to  the  two  women,  and  heightened  our 
interest  in  both,  by  placing  the  praises  of  Katherine  in  the  mouth 
of  Anna  Bullen !  and  how  characteristic  of  the  latter,  that  she 
should  first  express  unbounded  pity  for  her  mistress,  insisting  chiefly 
on  her  fall  from  her  regal  state  and  worldly  pomp,  thus  betraying 
her  own  disposition  : — 

For  she  that  had  all   the  fair   parts   of   woman, 
Had,  too,  a  woman's  heart,  which  ever  yet 
Affected  eminence,  wealth,  and  sovereignty. 


K  A  T  H  E  R  I  N  E    O  F    A  R  R  A  G  O  X  .  307 

That  she  shouKl  call  the  loss  of  temporal  pomp  once  enjoyed, 
"  a  sufferance  equal  to  soul  and  body's  severing ;  "  that  she  should 
immediately  protest  that  she  -would  not  herself  be  a  queen — "  No, 
good  troth !  not  for  all  the  riches  under  heaven  ! " — and  not  long 
afterwards  ascend  without  reluctance  that  throne  and  bed  from 
which  her  royal  mistress  had  been  so  cruelly  divorced ! — how 
natural !  The  portrait  is  not  less  true  and  masterly  than  that  of 
Katherine ;  but  the  character  is  overborne  by  the  superior  moral 
firmness  and  intrinsic  excellence  of  the  latter.  That  we  may  be 
more  fully  sensible  of  this  contrast,  the  beautiful  scene  just  alluded 
to  immediately  precedes  Katherine's  trial  at  Blackfriars,  and  the 
description  of  Anna  Bullen's  triumphant  beauty  at  her  coronation 
is  placed  immediately  before  the  dying  scene  of  Katherine ;  yet 
with  equal  good  taste  and  good  feeling  Shakspeare  has  constantly 
avoided  all  personal  collision  between  the  two  characters ;  nor 
does  Anna  Bullen  ever  appear  as  queen  except  in  the  pageant  of 
the   procession,   which   in   reading    the   play   is  scarcely   noticed. 

To  return  to  Katherine.  The  whole  of  the  trial  scene  is  given 
nearly  verbatim  from  the  old  chronicles  and  records;  but  the  dryness 
and  harshness  of  the  law  proceedings  is  tempered  at  once  and 
elevated  by  the  genius  and  the  w-isdom  of  the  poet.  It  appears, 
on  referring  to  the  historical  authorities,  that  w^hen  the  affair  was 
first  agitated  in  council,  Katherine  replied  to  the  long  expositions 
and  theological  sophistries  of  her  opponents  wilh  resolute  simplicity 
and  composure: — "I  am  a  woman,  and  lack  wit  and  learning  to 
answer  these  opinions ;  but  I  am  sure  that  neither  the  king's 
father,  nor  my  father,  would  have  condescended  to  our  marriage,  if 
it  had  been  judged  unlawful.  x-\.s  to  your  saying  that  I  should 
put  the  cause  to  eight  persons  of  this  realm,  for  quietness  of  the 
king's  conscience,  I  pray  Heaven  to  send  his  Grace  a  quiet 
conscience :  and  this  shall  be  your  answer,  that  I  say  I  am  his 
lawful  wife,  and  to  him  lawfully  married;  though  net  worthy  of 
it ;  and  in  this  point  I  will  abide,  till  the  court  of  Rome,  which 
was  privy  to   the  beginning,   have   made  a   final    ending  of  it.  "  * 

Katherine's    appearance   in   the    court  at  Blackfiiars,   attended    by 

•Hall's  Chronicle,  p.  7S1. 


308  K  A  T  11  E  R  I  N  E    OF    A  R  R  A  G  O  N  . 

a  noble  troop  of  ladies  and  prelates  of  her  counsel,  and  her 
refusal  to  answer  the  citation,  are  historical.*  Her  speech  to  the 
king — 

Sir,  I  beseech  you  do  me  right  and  justice, 
And  to  bestow  your  pity  on  me,  &c.,  &c., 

Is  taken  word  for  word  (as  nearly  as  the  change  from  prose  to 
blank  verse  would  allow)  from  the  old  record  in  Hall.  It  w^ould 
have  been  easy  for  Shakspeare  to  have  exalted  his  own  skill,  by 
throwing  a  coloring  of  poetry  and  eloquence  into  this  speech, 
without  altering  the  sense  or  sentimf^nt;  but  by  adhering  to  the 
calm  argumentative  simplicity  of  manner  and  diction  natural  to  the 
woman,  he  has  preserved  the  truth  of  character  without  lessening 
the  pathos  of  the  situation.  Her  challenging  Wolsey  as  a 
"  foe  to  truth,"  and  her  very  expressions,  "  I  utterly  refuse — 
yea,  from  my  soul  abhor  you  for  my  judge,"  are  taken  from  fact. 
The  sudden  burst  of  indignant  passion  towards  the  close  of  the 
scene, 

hi  one  who  ever  yet 
Had  stood  to  charity,  and  displayed  the  effects 
Of  disposition  gentle,  and  of  wisdom 
O'ertopping  woman's  power; 

is  taken   from   nature,   though   it   occurred    on   a   different    occasion,  f 

Lastly,   the   circumstance   of  her   being   called   back   after   she   had 

appealed   from    the   court     and    angrily   refusing  to    return,    is    from 

the   life.      Master    Griffith,    on  whose    arm    she   leaned,   observed  that 

*  The  court  at  BI:ickfr;ars  sat  on  the  2Sth  of  May,  ]5'29.  "The  queen  being 
called,  accompanied  by  the  four  bishops  and  others  of  her  counsel,  and  a  great 
company  of  ladies  and  gentlewomen  following  her ;  and  after  her  obeisance,  sadly  and 
^\ith  great  gravity,  she  appealed  from  them  to  the  Court  of  Rome." — See  Hall  and 
Cavendish's  Life  of  Wolsey. 

The  account  which  Ilumc  give?  of  this  scene  is  very  elegant:  but  after  the  affect- 
ing 7iaivetS  of  the  old  clironiclers  it  is  very  cold  and  unsatisfactory. 

J  The  queen  answered  the  Duke  of  Suffjlk  very  highly  and  obstinately,  with  many 
high  words:  and  suddenly,  in  a  fury,  she  departed  from  him  into  her  privy  chamber." 
•—Vide  Hall's   Chronicle. 


KATHERINE  OF  ARRAGON.       309 

she  was  called :  "  On,  on,"  quoth  she ;  "  it  maketh  no  matter, 
for  it  is  no  indifferent  court  for  me,  therefore  I  will  not  tarry. 
Go   on  your  ways.  "  * 

King  Henry's  own  assertion,  '•'  I  dare  to  say,  my  lords,  that 
for  her  womanhood,  wisdom,  nobility,  and  gentleness,  never 
prince  had  such  another  wife,  and  therefore  if  I  would  willingly 
change  her  I  were  not  wise,"  is  thus  beautifully  paraphrased  by 
Shakspeare : — 

That  man   i'  the  world  who  shall  report  he   has 
A  better  wife,   let  him  in   nought  be   trusted 
For  speaking  false   in   that !     Thou  art  alone, 
If  thy  rare   qualities,  sweet  gentleness 
(Thy  meekness,  saint-like,  wife-like  government, 
Obeying  in  commanding;  and  thy  parts. 
Sovereign  and  pious  else,  could  speak  thee  out), 
The  queen  of  earthly  queens.     She's  nobly  born, 
And  like   her  true   nobility   she   has 
Carried  herself  towards  me. 

The     annotators    on    Shakspeare    have     all     observed     the     close 
resemblance  between  this  fine   passage — 

Sir, 
I  am   about  to  weep,   but  thinking  that 
We  are   a  queen,   or  long  have   dreamed  so,  certain 
The   daughter  of   a   king— my  drops   of   tears 
I  '11   turn  to  sparks  of   fire. 

and  the  speech   of    Hermione — 

I  am  not  prone  lo  weeping   as   our   sex 
Commonly  arc,  the   want  of    which  vain  dew 
Perchance  shall  dry  your   pities:   but  I  have 
That  honorable  grief  lodged   here,  which  burns 
Worse  than  tears  drown. 


•  Vide  Cavendish's  Life  of  Wolsey 


310  K  A  T  11  E  R  I  N  E    OF    A  R  R  A  G  O  N  . 

But  these  verbal  gentlemen  do  not  seem  to  have  felt  that  the 
resemblance  is  merely  on  the  surface,  and  that  the  two  passages 
could  not  possibly  change  places,  without  a  manifest  violation  of 
the  truth  of  character.  In  Hermione  it  is  pride  of  sex  merely : 
in  Katherine  it  is  pride  of  place  and  pride  of  birth.  Hermione, 
though  so  superbly  majestic,  is  perfectly  independent  of  her  regal 
state  :  Katherine,  though  so  meekly  pious,  will  neither  forget  hers, 
nor  allow  it  to  be  forgotten  by  others  for  a  moment.  Hermione, 
when  deprived  of  that  "  crown  and  comfort  of  her  life,"  her 
husband's  love,  regards  all  things  else  with  despair  and  indifference 
except  her  female  honor :  Katherine,  divorced  and  abandoned,  still 
with  true  Spanish  pride  stands  upon  respect,  and  will  not  bate 
one    atom   of  her   accustomed  state. 

Though  unqueened,  yet  like  a  queen, 
And   daughter  to  a  king,  inter   me  ' 

The  passage — 

A  fellow  of   the   royal  bed,  that  owns 

A  moiety  of  the  throne — a  great  king's  daughter, 

here  standing 

To  prate  and  talk  for  life  and  honor  'fore 
Who  please  to  come  to  hear,* 

would  apply  nearly  to  both  queens,  yet  a  single  sentiment — nay  a 
single  sentence — could  not  possibly  be  transferred  from  one  character 
to  the  other.  The  magnanimity,  the  noble  simplicity,  the  purity 
of  heart,  the  resignation  in  each — how  perfectly  equal  in  degree  ! 
how   diametrically   opposite   in   kind !  f 

•Winter's  Tale,  act  iii.,  scene  2. 

t  I  have  constantly  abstained  from  considering  any  of  these  characters  with  a 
reference  to  the  theatre;  yet  I  cannot  help  remarking,  that  if  Mrs.  Siddons,  who 
excelled  equally  in  Hermione  and  Katherine,  and  threw  such  majesty  of  demeanor, 
such  power,  such  picturesque  effect,  into  both,  could  likewise  feel  and  convey  the 
infinite  contrast  between  the  ideal  grace,  the  classical  repose  and  imaginative  charm 
thrown  round  Hermione,  and  the  matter-of-fact,  artless,  prosaic  nature  of  Katherine; 
between  the  poetical  grandeur  of  the  former,  and  the  moral  dignity  of  the  latter,— 


KATHERINE    OF    ARRAGOxX.  311 

Once  more   to   return   to   Katherine. 

We     are   told    by   Cavendish,   that   when   Wolsey   and    Campeggio 
visited    the    queen    by   the    king's    order,   she   was    found    at    work 
among    her   women,   and   came   forth   to   meet   the    cardinals   with   a 
skein  of  white  thread  hanging   about  her  neck ;    that    when   Wolsey 
addressed   her   in   Latin,   she    interrupted    him,   saying,   "  Nay,    good 
my   lord,   speak    to    me   in    English,   I    beseech    you ;    although     I 
understand    Latin. "      "  Forsooth    then,"    quoth    my   lord,    "  madam, 
if    it   please  your   grace,   we  come   both  to   know    your   mind,   how 
ye   be   disposed   to   do   in   this    matter    between   the   king   and    you, 
and    also    to   declare    secretly   our    opinions    and    our    counsel   unto 
you,   which  we   have   intended   of  very   zeal    and   obedience   that  we 
bear  to  your  grace. "      "  My  lords,  I  thank  you  then,"   quoth  she, 
"  of    your    good    wills ;    but    to    make    answer    to    your    request    I 
cannot   so    suddenly,  for   I  was   set    among    my   maidens    at    work, 
thinking   full   little  of    any   such    matter ;    wherein   there    needeth   a 
longer   deliberation,    and  a   better    head   than  mine   to   make   answer 
to   so   noble  wise  men   as  ye  be.      I  had  need   of  good  counsel   in 
this    case,   which    toucheth   me   so    near ;    and    for     any   counsel    or 
friendship    that  I   can  find   in    England,   they   are    nothing    to    my 
purpose   or    profit.      Think    you,   I   pray     you,   my   lords,   will     any 
Englishmen     counsel,   or    be    friendly  unto    me     against    the    king's 
pleasure,   they  being    his    subjects !      Nay,   forsooth,   my   lords !    and 
for    my   counsel,   in   whom  I   do     intend    to  put    my   trust,   they  be 
not    here ;     they    be    in    Spain,    in    my    native    country.  *        Alas ! 
my  lords,   I   am  a  poor   woman  lacking  both  wit  and   understanding 
sufinciently  to    answer    such    approved   wise   men  as    ye   be   both,   in 
so    weighty    a    matter.      I    pray    you    to     extend    your    good    and 


then  she  certainly  exceeded  all   that    I   could    have    imagined    possible,  even    to  h^r 
wonderful  powers. 
*  This  affacting  passage  is  thus  rendered  by  Shakspeare : 

Nay,  forsooth,  my  friends, 
They  that  must  weigh  out  my  afflictions— 
They  that  my  trust  must  grow  to,  live  not  here — 
They  are,  as  all  my  other  comforts,  far  hence, 
In  mine  own  country,  lords. 

Henry  IIJ  ,  act  iii.,  sc    1. 


012  K  A  T  H  E  R  1  .\  E    O  F    A  R  R  A  G  O  N  . 

indifferent  minds  in  your  authority  unto  me,  for  I  am  a  simpk' 
woman,  destitute  and  barren  of  friendship  and  counsel,  here  in  a 
foreign  region ;  and  as  for  your  counsel,  I  %vill  not  refuse,  but  be 
glad  to   hear. " 

It  appears,  also,  that  when  the  Archbishop  of  York  and  ]5ishop 
Tunstall  waited  on  her  at  her  house  near  Huntingdon,  with  tho 
sentence  of  the  divorce,  signed  by  Henry,  and  confinned  by  act 
of  parliament,  she  refused  to  admit  its  validity,  she  being  Henry's 
wife,  and  not  his  subject.  The  bishop  describes  her  conduct  in 
his  letter :  "  She  being  therewith  in  great  choler  and  agony,  and 
always  interrupting  our  words,  declared  that  she  would  never  leave 
the  name  of  queen,  but  would  persist  in  accounting  herself  the 
kinfj's  wife  till  death. "  When  the  official  letter  containino; 
minutes  of  their  conference,  was  shown  to  her,  she  seized  a  pen, 
and  dashed  it  angrily  across  every  sentence  in  which  she  was 
styled   Princess-dowager. 

If  we  now  turn  to  that  inimitable  scene  between  Katherine 
and  the  two  cardinals  (act  iii.,  scene  1),  we  shall  observe  how 
finely  Shakspeare  has  condensed  these  incidents,  and  unfolded  to  us 
all  the  workings  of  Katherine's  proud  yet  feminine  nature.  She 
is  discovered  at  work  with  some  of  her  women — she  calls  for 
music  "  to  soothe  her  soul,  grown  sad  with  troubles" — then  follows 
the  little  song,  of  which  the  sentiment  is  so  well  adapted  to  the 
occasion,  while  its  quaint  yet  classic  elegance  breathes  the  very 
spirit   of   those   times,   when   Surry   loved   and   sung. 

SONG. 

Orpheus  with  his  lute   made   trees, 
And   the   mountain-tops  that  freeze, 

Bow  themselves  when   he  did  sing : 
To  his   music   plants   and   flowers 
Ever  sprung,   as   sun  and   showers 

There   had   made   a   lasting   spring. 

Ever}'thing  that  heard  him  play, 
Even  the  billows  of   tho  sea, 

Hung  their  heads  and  then   lay  bv. 
In  sweet  rnup.ic   i''  such   art. 


K  A  T  II  E  R  I  N  E    OF    A  R  R  A  G  O  N  .  313 

Killing  care,  and  grief  of  heart, 
Fall  asleep,  on  hearing,  die. 

They     are    interrupted     by    the     arrival     of    the     two     cardinals. 
Katherine's    perception     of    their    subtlety — her    suspicion    of    their 
purpose — her   sense   of    her    own   weakness   and   inability  to    contend 
with     them,     and     her      mild      subdued      dignity,     are     beautifully 
represented ;    as    also    the    guarded    self-command   with    which    she 
eludes    giving   a   definitive    answer ;    but   when    they   counsel   her   to 
that   which    she,   who    knows    Henry,   feels    must   end   in   her    ruin, 
then    the    native    temper     is   roused   at    once,    or,    to   use    Tunstall's 
expression,   "the   choler   and   the  agony"   burst   forth   in  word- 
Is   this  your   christian   counsel  ?     Out  upon  ye  ! 
Heaven  is  above   all  yet;   there   sits   a   Judge 
That  no  king  can  corrupt. 

WOLSEY. 

Your  rage   mistakes   us. 

QUEEN     KATHEKINE. 

The  more   shame   for  ye  !     Holy  men  I  thought  ye, 
Ui'on  my  soul,  two  reverend  cardinal  virtues; 
But  cardinal  sins,  and  hollow   hearts,  I  fear  ye: 
Mend  them,  for  shame,  my  lords :   is  this  your  comfort, 
Tiic  cordial  that  ye  bring  a   wretched  lady  ? 

With  the  same  force  of  language  and  impetuous  yet  dignified 
feeling,  she  asserts  her  own  conjugal  truth  and  merit,  and  insists 
upon   her   rights. 

Have  I  liv'd  thus  long  (let  me  speak  myself. 
Since  virtue  finds  no  friends),  a  wife,  a  true  one, 
A  woman  (I  dare  say,  without  vain  glory). 
Never  yet  branded  with  suspicion  ? 
Have  I  with  all  my  full  affections 

Still  met  tlic  king — lov'<!  him  next  heaven,  obey'd  liim ! 
Been  out  of  fondness  superstitious  to    him — 
Almost  forgot  my  prayers  to  content  him. 
And  am  I  thus  rewarded?  'tis  not  well,  lords,  itc. 
40 


314  K  A  T  H  E  R  I  N  E    O  F    A  R  R  A  G  0  N 

My  lord,  I  dare  not  make  myself  so  guilty, 
To  give  up  willingly  that  noble  title 
Your  master  wed  me  to :   nothing  but  death 
Shall  e'er  divorce  my  dignities. 


And  this  burst  of  unwonted  passion  is  immediately  followed  by 
the  natural  reaction ;  it  subsides  into  tears,  dejection,  and  a  mournfu. 
self-compassion. 

Would  I  had  never  trod  this  English  ground. 

Or  felt  the  flatteries  that  grow  upon  it. 

What  will  become  of  me  now,  wretched  lady  ? 

I  am  the  most  unhappy  woman  living. 

Alas !  poor  wenches !  where  are  now  your  fortunes  ? 

[To  her  women. 
Shipwrecked  upon  a  kingdom,  where  no  pity, 
No  friends,  no  hope,  no  kindred  weep  for  me ! 
Almost  no  grave  allowed  me !    Like  the  lily  that  once 
Was  mistress  of  the  field,  and  flourish'd, 
I  '11  hang  my  head  and  perish. 

Dr.  Johnson  observes  on  this  scene,  that  all  Katherine's  distresses 
could   not   save   her   from   a   quibble   on   the  word   cardinal. 

Holy   men  I  thought  ye, 
Upon  my  soul,  two  reverend  cardinal  virtues; 
But  cardinal  sins,  and  hollow  hearts,  I  fear  ye! 

When  we  read  this  passage  in  connection  with  the  situation  and 
sentiment,  the  scornful  play  upon  the  \vords  is  not  only  appropriate 
and  natural,  it  seems  inevitable.  Katherine,  assuredly,  is  neither 
an  imaginative  nor  a  witty  personage ;  but  we  all  acknowledge 
the  truism,  that  anger  inspires  wit,  and  whenever  there  is  passion 
there  is  poetry.  In  the  instance  just  alluded  to,  the  sarcasm  springs 
out  from  the  bitter  indignation  of  the  moment.  In  her  grand 
rebuke  of  Wolsey,  in  the  trial  scene,  how  just  and  beautiful  is  the 
gradual  elevation  Oi'  her  language,  till  it  rises  into  that  magnificent 
imaqre — 


K  A  T  II  E  R  I  N  E    OF    A  R  II  A  G  O  N  .  315 

You  have  by  fortune  and  liis  highness'  favors, 
Gone  shghtly  o'er  low  steps,  and  now  are  mounted, 
Where  powers  are  your  retainers,  &.C. 

In  the    depth  of    her    affliction,  the    pathos   as    naturally   clothes 
itself  in  poetry. 

Like  the  lily, 
That  once  was  mistress  of  the  field,  and  flourish'd, 
I'll  hang  my  head  and  perish. 

But  these,  I  believe,  are  the  only  instances  of  imagery  throughout ; 
for,  in  general,  her  language  is  plain  and  energetic.  It  has  the 
strength   and  simplicity   of  her    character,   with   very   little  metaphor, 

and   less   wit. 

In    approaching  the  last    scene    of    Katherine's    life,    I    feel    as 

if    about   to   tread  within   a   sanctuary,   where   nothing  befits   us   but 

silence  and   tears;  veneration  so   strives  with   compassion,  tenderness 

with    awe.  * 

We  must  suppose  a  long  interval  to  have  elapsed  since  Katherine's 
interview  with  the  two  cardinals.  Wolsey  was  disgraced,  and 
poor  Anna  Bullen  at  the  height  of  her  short-lived  prosperity.  It 
was  Wolsey's  fate  to  be  detested  by  both  queens.  la  the  pursuance 
of  his  own   selfish  and    ambitious  designs,  he   had   treated   both  with 

*  Dr.  Johnson  is  of  opinion,  that  this  scene  "  is  above  any  other  part  of  Shaks- 
peare's  tragedies,  and  perhaps  above  any  scene  of  any  other  poet,  tender  and 
pathetic;  without  gods,  or  furies,  or  poisons,  or  precipices ;  without  the  help  of 
romantic  circumstances;  without  improbable  sallies  of  poetical  lamentation,  and 
without  any  throes  of  tumultuous  misery." 

I  have  already  observed,  that  in  judging  of  Shakspeare's  characters  as  of  persons 
we  meet  in  real  life,  we  arc  swayed  unconsciously  by  our  own  habits  and  feelings, 
and  our  preference  governed,  more  or  less,  by  our  individual  prejudices  or 
sympathies.  Thus,  Dr.  Johnson,  who  has  not  a  word  to  bestow  on  Imogen,  and 
who  has  treated  poor  Juliet  as  if  he  had  been  in  truth  "  the  very  beadle  to  an 
amorous  sigh,"  does  full  justice  to  the  character  of  Katherine,  because  the  logical 
turn  of  his°mind,  his  vigorous  intellect,  and  his  austere  integrity,  enabled  him  to 
appreciate  its  peculiar  beauties:  and,  accordingly,  we  find  that  he  gives  it,  not  only 
unqualified,  but  almost  exclusive  admiration:  he  goes  so  far  as  to  assert,  that  in  this 
play  the  genius  of  Shakspeare  comes  in  and  goes  out  with  Katherino 


;JH5  K  A  T  II  E  R  I  N  E    OF    A  R  11  A  G  O  N  . 

perfidy ;    and    one   was   the    remote,   the    other    the    immediate   cause 
of  his  ruin.  * 

The  ruffian  king,  of  whom  one  hates  to  think,  was  bent  on 
forcing  Katharine  to  concede  her  rights,  and  illegitiraize  her 
daughter  in  favor  of  the  offspring  of  Anna  Bullen :  she  steadily 
refuted,  was  declared  contumacious,  and  the  sentence  of  divorce 
pronounced  in  1533.  Such  of  her  attendants  as  persisted  in  paying 
lier  the  honors  due  to  a  queen  were  driven  from  her  household; 
those  who  consented  to  serve  her  as  princess-dowager,  she  refused 
to  admit  into  her  presence;  so  that  she  remained  unattended, 
except  by  a  few  v/omen,  and  her  gentleman  usher,  Griffith. 
During  the  last  eighteen  months  of  her  life  she  resided  at  Kimholton. 
Her  nephew,  Charles  V.,  had  offered  her  an  asylum  and  princely 
treatment ;  but  Katherine,  broken  in  heart,  and  declining  in 
health,  was  unwilling  to  drag  the  spectacle  of  her  misery  and 
degradation  into  a  strange  country;  she  pined  in  her  loneliness, 
deprived  of  her  daughter,  receiving  no  consolation  from  the  pope, 
and  no  redress  from  the  emperor.  Wounded  pride,  wronged 
affection,  and  a  cankering  jealousy  of  the  womr.n  preferred  to  her 
Cv-^ivh,  though  it  never  broke  out  into  unseemly  words,  is  enumerated 
as  one  of  the  causes  of  her  death),  at  length  wore  out  a  feeble 
frame.  "  Thus,"  says  the  chronicle,  "  Queen  Katherine  fell  into 
her  last  sickness;  and  though  the  king  sent  to  comfort  her  through 
Chapuys,  the  emperor's  ambassador,  she  grew  worse  and  worse; 
and  finding  death  now  coming,  she  caused  a  maid  attending  on 
her  to   write    to   the   king   to   this   effect : — 

"My   most  .dear   Lord,   King,    and    Husband; 
"The   hour   of  my   death   now   approaching,   I   cannot   choose   but, 
out    of    the    love  I   bear    you,  advise    you    of    your    soul's    health, 
which    you   ought   to   prefer    before   all    considerations   of    the   world 

*  It  will  be  remsmbered,  that  in  early  youth  Anna  Bullen  was  betrothed  to  Lord 
Henry  Percy,  who  was  passionately  in  love  with  her.  AVolsey,  to  serve  the  king's 
purposes,  broke  off  this  match,  and  forced  Percy  into  an  unwilling  marriage  with  Lady 
^lary  Talbot.  "The  stout  Earl  of  Northumberland,"  who  arrested  Wolsey  at  York, 
was  tliis  very  Percy  ;  he  was  chosen  for  this  mission  by  the  interference  of  Anna 
Bullen : — a  piece  of  vengeance  truly  feminine  in  its  mixture  of  sentiment  and 
spitefulness  ;  and  every  way  characteristic  of  the  individual  woman. 


K  A  T  H  E  R  I  N  E    OF    A  R  R  A  G  0  N  .  317 

or  flesh  whatsoever;  for  which  yet  you  have  cast  me  into  many 
calamities,  and  yourself  into  many  troubles:  but  I  forgive  you  all, 
and  pray  God  to  do  so  likewise ;  for  the  rest,  I  commend  unto 
you,  Mary  our  daughter,  beseeching  you  to  be  a  good  father  to 
her,  as  I  have  heretofore  desired.  I  must  intreat  you  also  to 
respect  my  maids,  and  give  them  in  marriage,  which  is  not  much, 
they  being  but  three,  and  all  my  other  servants  a  year's  pay 
besides  their  due,  lest  otherwise  they  be  unprovided  for ;  lastly,  1 
make  this  vow,  that  mine  eyes  desire  you  above  all  thino-s. — 
Farewell  !  "  * 

She  also  wrote  another  letter  to  the  ambassador,  desiring  that 
he  would  remind  the  king  of  her  dying  request,  and  urge  him  to 
do   her   this   last   right. 

What  the  historian  relates  Shakspeare  realizes.  On  the  wonderful 
beauty  of  Katherine's  closing  scene  we  need  not  dwell ;  for  that 
requires  no  illustration.  In  transferring  the  sentiments  of  her 
letter  to  her  lips,  Shakspeare  has  given  them  added  grace,  and 
pathos,  and  tenderness,  without  injuring  their  truth  and  simplicity: 
the  feelings,  and  almost  the  manner  of  expression  are  Katherine's 
own.  The  severe  justice  with  which  she  draws  the  character  of 
Wolsey  is  extremely  characteristic !  The  benign  candor  with  which 
she  listens  to  the  praise  of  him  "  whom  living  she  most  hated," 
is  not  less  so.  How  beautiful  her  religious  enthusiasm ! — the  slumber 
which  visits  her  pillow,  as  she  listens  to  that  sad  music  she  called 
her  knell ;  her  awakening  from  a  vision  of  celestial  joy  to  find 
herself  still   on   earth — 

Spirits  of  peace  !  where  are  ye  ?  are  ye  gone, 
And  leave  me  here  in  wretchedness  beliind  ye  ? 

how  unspeakably  beautiful!  And  to  consummate  all  in  cnc  final 
touch  of  truth  and  nature,  we  see  that  consciousness  of  her  own 
worth  and    integrity  which   had  sustained   her   through   all  her   trials 


*  The  king  is  said  to  have  wept  on  reading  this  letter,  and  licr  body  being  interred 
at  Peterbro',  in  the  monastery,  for  honor  of  her  memory  it  was  preserved  at  the 
dissolution,  and  erected  into  a  bishop's  see.— Herbert's  Life  of  Henry   VII] 


318  K  A  T  II  E  R  I  N  K    OF    A  R  R  A  G  O  N  . 

of  heart,  and  that  pride  of  station  for  ^vhich  she  had  contended 
through  long  years, — Avhich  had  become  more  dear  by  opposition, 
and  by  the  perseverance  Avith  ^vhich  she  had  asserted  it, — 
remaining  the  last  strong  feeling  upon  her  mind,  to  the  very  last 
horn-  of  existence. 

When  I  am  dead,  good  wench, 
Let  me  be  used  with  honor :  strew  me  over 
With  maiden  flowers,  that  all  the  world  may  know 
I  was  a  chaste  wife  to  my  grave ;  embalm  me, 
Then  lay  me  forth :  although  unqueen'd,  yet  like 
A  queen,  and  daughter  to  a  king,  inter  me. 
I  can  no  more — 

In   the  epilogue   to  this  play,*   it  is  recommended — 

To  the  merciful  construction  of  good  women, 
For  such  a  one  we  show'd  them : 

alluding  to  the  character  of  Queen  Katherine.  Shakspeare  has,  in 
fact,  placed  before  us  a  queen  and  a  heroine,  who  in  the  first 
place,  and  above  all,  is  a  good  woman ;  and  I  repeat,  that  in 
doing  so,  and  in  trustmg  for  all  his  effect  to  truth  and  virtue,  he 
has  given  a  sublime  proof  of  his  genius  and  his  wisdom ; — for 
which,  among  many  other  obligations,  we  Avomen  remain  his  debtors 


•  Written  (as  the  commentators  suppose),  not  by  Shakspeare,  but  by  Ben  Jonson 


^  r/y?/yr       ^//rZ./y'. 


LADY   MACBETH 


I  DOUBT  whether  the  epithet  historical  can  properly  apply  to  the 
character    of    Lady   Macbeth;    for    though  the  subject  of    the    play 
be  taken   from   history,   we   never   think   of    her   with    any   reference 
to    historical    associations,    as    we    do    with    regard    to    Constance, 
Volumnia,  Katherine   of    Arragon,   and  others.      I   remember   reading 
some    critique,   in   which    Lady   Macbeth   was   styled    the    "Scottish 
queen;"    and   methought    the  title,    as   apphed   to    her,   sounded   like 
a  vulgarism.      It   appears  that  the  real  wife   of  I^Iacbeth,— she   who 
lives  "only    in    the    obscure    record     of    an   obscure    age,  bore    the 
very  unmusical    appellation  of    Graoch,   and  was    instigated  to    the 
murder  of  Duncan,  not  only  by  ambition,  but  by  motives  of  vengeance. 
She   was    the     grand-daughter    of    Kenneth     the     Fourth,    killed    in 
1003,   fighting    against   Malcolm  the    Second,   the   father  of    Duncan. 
Macbeth"  reigned  over    Scotland   from   the    year    1039   to    105G  ;— 
but    what    is    all    this    to    the    purpose-?      The    sternly    magnificent 
creation  of  the   poet   stands  before  us    independent   of  all   these  aids 
of  fancy;  she  is  Lady  Macbeth;  as  such  she  lives,  she  reigns,  and  is 
immortal  in  the   world  to  imagination.     What  earthly  title  could  add 
to  her  grandeur  ?    what  human   record  or  attestation  could  strengthen 
our  impression   of  her  reality? 

Characters  in  history  move  before  us  like  a  procession  of  figures 
in  basso  relievo :  we  see  one  side  only,  that  which  the  artist  chose 
to  exhibit  to  us;  the  rest  is  sunk  in  the  block:  the    same   characters 


32U  LADY    M  A  C  B  E  T  11  . 

ia  Shakspeare  are  like  the  statues  cut  out  of  the  block,  fashioned^ 
finished,  tangible  in  every  part :  we  may  consider  them  under  every 
aspect,  v\-e  may  examine  them  on  every  side.  As  the  classical  times, 
"when  the  garb  did  not  make  the  man,  were  peculiarly  favoralile  to 
the  development  and  delineation  of  the  human  form,  and  have 
handed  down  to  us  the  purest  models  of  strength  and  grace — so  the 
times  in  which  Shakspeare  lived  were  favorable  to  the  vigorous 
delineation  of  natural  character.  Society  was  not  then  one  vast 
conventional  masquerade  of  manners.  In  his  revelations,  the 
accidental  circumstances  are  to  the  individual  character,  what  the 
drapery  of  the  antique  statue  is  to  the  statue  itself;  it  is  evident, 
that,  though  adapted  to  each  other,  and  studied  relatively,  they  were 
also  studied  separately.  We  trace  through  the  folds  the  fine  and 
true  proportions  of  the  figure  beneath :  they  seem  and  are  independent 
of  each  other  to  the  practised  eye,  though  carved  together  from  the 
same  enduring  substance ;  at  once  perfectly  distinct  and  eternally 
inseparable.  h\  history  we  can  but  study  character  in  relation  to 
events,  to  situation  and  circumstances,  which  disguise  and  encumber 
it :  we  are  left  to  imagine,  to  infer,  what  certain  people  must  have 
been,  from  tlie  manner  in  which  they  have  acted  or  suffered. 
Shakspeare  and  nature  bring  us  back  to  the  true  order  of  things; 
and  shov.-ing  us  what  the  human  being  is,  enable  us  to  judge  of 
the  possible  as  well  as  the  positive  result  in  acting  and  suffering. 
Here,  instead  of  judging  the  individual  by  his  actions,  we  are  enabled 
to  judge  of  actions  by  a  reference  to  the  individual.  When  we  can 
carry  this  power  into  the  experience  of  real  life,  we  shall  perhaps  be 
more  just  to  one  another,  and  not  consider  ourselves  aggrieved, 
because  we  cannot  gather  figs  from  thistles  and  grapes  from  thorns. 
In  the  play  or  poem  of  Macbeth,  the  interest  of  the  story  is  so 
engrossing,  the  events  so  rapid  and  so  appalling,  the  accessories  so 
sublimely  conceived  and  so  skilfully  combined,  that  it  is  difficult  to 
detach  Lady  Macbeth  from  the  dramatic  situation,  or  consider  her 
apart  from  the  terrible  associations  of  our  first  and  earliest 
impressions.  As  the  vulgar  idea  of  a  Juliet — that  all  beautiful' and 
heaven-gifted  child  of  the  south — is  merely  a  love-sick  girl  in  white 
satin,  so  the  common-place  idea  of  Lady  Macbeth,  though  endowed 
with    the    rarest    powers,    the    loftiest    energies,    and    the    profoundesf 


L  A  D  Y    M  A  C  B  E  T  II  .  ^21 

affections,  is  nothing  but  a  fierce,  cruel  woman,  brandishing  a  couplc- 
of  daggers,  and  inciting  her  husband  to  butcher  a  poor  old  king. 

Even  those  who  reflect  more  deeply  are  apt  to  consider  rather  the 
mode  in  which  a  certain  character  is  maniiested,  than  the  combination 
of  abstract  qualities  making  up  that  individual  human  being ;  so 
what  should  be  last,  is  first;  effects  are  mistaken  for  causes,  qualities 
are  contbuuded  with  their  results,  and  the  perversion  of  what  is 
essentially  good,  with  the  operation  of  positive  evil.  Hence  it  is, 
that  those  who  can  feel  and  estimate  the  magnificent  conception  and 
poetical  development  of  the  character,  have  overlooked  the  grand 
moral  lesson  it  conveys;  they  forget  that  the  crime  of  Lady  Macbeth 
terrifies  us  in  proportion  as  we  sympathize  with  her ;  and  that  tliis 
sympathy  is  in  proportion  to  the  degree  of  pride,  passion,  and 
intellect,  we  may  ourselves  possess.  It  is  good  to  behold  and  to 
tremble  at  the  possible  result  of  the  noblest  faculties  uncontrolled  or 
perverted.  True  it  is,  that  the  ambitious  women  of  these  civilized 
times  do  not  murder  sleeping  kings :  but  are  there,  therefore,  no  Lady 
Macbeths  in  the  %vorld  ?  no  women  who,  under  the  influence  of  a 
diseased  or  excited  appetite  for  power  or  distinction,  would  sacrifice 
the  happiness  of  a  daughter,  the  fortunes  of  a  husband,  the  principles 
of  a  son,  and  peril  their  own  souls  ? 

The  character  of  Macbeth  is  considered  as  one  of  the  most 
complex  in  the  whole  range  of  Shakspeare's  dramatic  creations. 
lie  is  represented  in  the  course  of  the  action  under  such  a  variety  of 
aspects;  the  good  and  evil  qualities  of  his  mind  are  so  poised  and 
blended,  and  instead  of  being  gradually  and  successively  developed, 
evolve  themselves  so  like  shifting  lights  and  shadows  playing  over 
the  "unstable  waters,"  that  his  character  has  afforded  u  continual 
and  interesting  subject  of  analysis  and  contemplation.  No!ie  of 
Shakspeare's  personages  have  been  treated  of  more  at  large ;  none 
have  been  more  minutely  criticised  and  profoundly  examined.  A 
single  feature  in  his  character — the  question,  lor  instance,  as  to 
whether  his  courage  be  personal  or  constitutional,  or  exf^ited  by 
mere  desperation — has  been  canvassed,  ar::serted,  and  refuted,  in  two 
masterly  essays. 

On    the    other    hand,  the    character    of    Lady    Macbeth    resolves 

41 


322  L  A  D  Y    M  A  C  B  E  T  II  . 

itself  into  few  and  simple  elements.  The  grand  features  of  her 
character  are  so  distinctly  and  prominently  marked,  that,  though 
acknowledged  to  be  one  of  the  poet's  most  sublime  creations,  she 
has  been  passed  over  with  comparatively  few  words :  generally 
speaking,  the  commentators  seem  to  have  considered  Lady  Macbeth, 
rather  with  reference  to  her  husband,  and  as  influencing  the  action 
of  the  drama,  than  as  an  individual  conception  of  amazing  power, 
poetry,  and  beauty :  or  if  they  do  individualize  her,  it  is  ever 
with  those  associations  of  scenic  representation  which  Mrs. 
Siddons  has  identified  with  the  character.  Those  who  have  been 
accustomed  to  see  it  arrayed  in  the  forms  and  lineaments  of  that 
magnificent  woman,  and  developed  with  her  wonder-working  powers, 
seem  satisfied  to  leave  it  there,  as  if  nothing  more  could  be  said 
or   added.  * 

But  the  generation  which  beheld  Mrs.  Siddons  in  her  glory,  is 
passing  away,  and  we  are  again  left  to  our  own  unassisted  feelings, 
or  to  all  the  satisfaction  to  be  derived  from  the  sagacity  of 
critics  and  the  reflections  of  commentators.  Let  us  turn  to  them 
for   a  moment. 

Dr.  Johnson,  who  seems  to  have  regarded  her  as  nothing  better 
than  a  kind  of  ogress,  tells  us  in  so  many  words,  that  "  Lady 
Macbeth  is  merely  detested. "  Schlegel  dismisses  her  in  haste  as 
a  species  of  female  fury.  In  the  two  essays  on  Macbeth  already 
mentioned,  she  is  passed  over  with  one  or  two  slight  allusions. 
The  only  justice  that  has  yet  been  done  to  her  is  by  Hazlitt,  in 
the  "  Characters  of  Shakspeare's  Plays. "  Nothing  can  be  finer 
than  his  remarks  as  far  as  they  go,  but  his  plan  did  not  allow 
him  sufficient  space  to  work  out  his  own  conception  of  the 
character,  with  tlie  minuteness  it  requires.  All  that  he  says  is 
just    in    sjcntiment,    and   most     eloquent     in   the    expression ;    but   in 


*  Mrs.  Siddons  left  among  her  papers  an  analysis  of  the  cliaracter  of  Lady 
Macbeth,  which  I  have  never  seen:  but  I  have  heard  her  say,  that  after  playing  the 
part  for  thirty  years,  she  never  read  it  over  without  discovering  in  it  something  new. 
She  had  an  idea  that  Lady  Macbeth  must  from  her  Celtic  origin  have  been  a  small, 
fair,  blue-eyed  woman.  Bonduca,  Fredegonde,  Brunehault,  and  other  AmaXons  of 
the  gothic  ages  were  of  this  complexion  ;  yet  I  cannot  help  fancying  Lady  Macbeth 
dark,  like  Black  Agnss  of  Douglas— a  sort  of  Lady  Macbeth  in  licr  way. 


L  A  D  Y    -M  A  C  B  E  T  II  .  323 

leaving  some  of  the  finest  points  altogether  untouched,  he  has  also 
left  us  in  doubt  whether  he  even  felt  or  perceived  them ;  and 
this  masterly  criticism  stops  short  of  the  whole  truth — it  is  a  little 
superficial,  and    a  little   too  harsh. 

In  the  mind  of  Lady  Ivlacbeth,  ambition  is  represented  as  the 
ruling  motive,  an  intense  over-mastering  passion,  which  is  gratified 
at  the  expense  of  every  just  and  generous  principle,  and  every 
feminine  feeling.  In  the  pursuit  of  her  object,  she  is  cru>il, 
treacherous,  and  daring.  She  is  doubly,  trebly  dyed  in  guilt  and 
blood ;  for  the  murder  she  instigates  is  rendered  more  frightful  by 
disloyalty  and  ingratitude,  and  by  the  violation  of  all  the  most 
sacred  claims  of  kindred  and  hospitality.  When  her  husband's 
more  kindly  nature  shrinks  from  the  perpetration  of  the  deed  of 
horror,  she,  like  an  evil  genius,  whispers  him  on  to  his  damnation. 
The  full  measure  of  her  wickedness  is  never  disguised,  the  magnitude 
and  atrocity  of  her  crime  is  never  extenuated,  forgotten,  or  forgiven, 
in  the  whole  course  of  the  play.  Our  judgment  is  not  bewildered,  nor 
our  moral  feeling  insulted,  by  the  sentimental  jumble  of  great  crimes 
and  dazzling  virtues,  after  the  fashion  of  the  German  school,  and  of 
some  admirable  writers  of  our  own  time.  Lady  Macbeth's  amazing 
power  of  intellect,  her  inexorable  iletermination  of  purpose,  her  super- 
human strencrth  of  nerve,  render  her  as  fearful  in  herself  as  her  deeds 
are  hateful ;  yet  she  is  not  a  mere  monster  of  depravity,  with  whom 
we  have  nothing  in  common,  nor  a  meteor  whose  destroying  path 
we  watch  in  ignorant  affright  and  amaze.  Slie  is  a  teri'lble 
impersonation  of  evil  passions  and  mighty  powers,  never  so  far 
removed  from  our  own  nature  as  to  be  cast  beyond  the  pale  of 
our  sympathies ;  for  the  woman  herself  remains  a  woman  to  the 
last — still    linked   with   her   sex    and  with    humanity. 

This  impression  is'  produced  partly  by  the  essential  truth  in  the 
conception  of  the  character,  and  partly  by  the  manner  in  which 
it  is  evolved;  by  a  combination  of  minute  and  delicate  touches, 
in  some  instances  by  speech,  in  others  by  silence ;  at  one  time 
by  what  is  revealed,  at  another  by  what  we  are  left  to  infer. 
As  in  real  life,  we  perceive  distinctions  in  character  we  cannot 
always  explain,  and  receive  impressions  for  which  we  cannot 
always     account,    witliout     going     back     to     tlu;     beginning    of    an 


r/j4  LADY    M  A  C  B  E  T  II  . 

acquaintance,   and   recalling   many    and  trifling    circumstances — looks, 
and    tones,    and    words;     thus    to     explain    that    hold   which    Lady 

Macbeth,    in    the    midst    of    all    her  atrocities,    still     keeps     upon 

our    feelings,   it   is  necessary   to   trace  minutely   the    action   of    the 

play,  as  far  as  she    is  concerned   in   it,  from    its   very  commencement 
to    its    close. 

We   must   then   bear   in    mind,   that  the    first    idea    of    murdering 

Duncan     is     not    suggested     by     Lady  iNla-cbeth     to     her     husband; 

it    springs    wilhin    Ins    mind,    and    is  revealed    to    us,   before    his 

first    interview   with    his    wife, — belbre  she    is     introduced    or    even 
alluded  to. 


This  supernatural  soliciting 
Cannot  be  ill ;  cannot  be  good.     If  ill, 
Why  hath  it  given  me  earnest  of  success, 
Commencing  in  a  truth?     I  am  thane  of  Cawdor — 
If  good,  why  do  I  yield  to  that  suggestion, 
Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair, 
And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs, 
Against  the  use  of  nature? 

It  will  be  said,  that  the  same  "horrid  suggestion"  presents 
itself  spontaneously  to  her,  on  the  reception  of  his  letter;  or 
rather,  that  the  letter  itself  acts  upon  her  mind  as  the  prophecy 
of  the  Weird  Sisters  on  the  mind  of  her  husband,  kindling 
the  latent  passion  for  empire  into  a  quenchless  flame.  We  are 
prepared  to  see  the  train  of  evil,  first  lighted  by  hellish 
ao-ency,  extend  itself  to  her  through  the  medium  of  her  husband; 
but  we  are  spared  the  more  revolting  idea  that  it  originated 
with  her.  The  guilt  is  thus  more  equally  divided  than  we  should 
suppose,  when  we  hear  people  pitying  "  the  noble  nature  of 
Macbeth,"  bewildered  and  goaded  on  to  crime,  solely  or  chiefly 
by   the   instigation   of  his   wife. 

It  is  true  that  she  afterwards  appears  the  more  active  agent  of 
the  two ;  but  it  is  less  through  her  pre-eminence  in  wickedness 
than  through  her  superiority  of  intellect.  The  eloquence — the 
fierce,   fervid    eloquence    with   which    she   bears    down    the  relenting 


L  A  D  Y    M  A  C  B  E  T  H  .  b2^ 

and  reluctant  spirit  of  her  husband,  the  dexterous  sophistry  with 
which  she  wards  off  his  objections,  her  artful  and  affected  doubts 
of  his  courafre — the  sarcastic  manner  in  which  she  lets  fall  the 
word  coward — a  word  which  no  man  can  endure  from  another, 
still  less  from  a  woman,  and  least  of  all  from  a  woman  he  loves — 
and  the  bold  address  with  which  she  removes  all  obstacles,  silences 
all  aro-uments,  overpowers  all  scruples,  and  marshals  the  way  before 
him,  absolutely  make  us  shrink  before  the  commanding  intellect  of 
the  woman,  with  a  terror  in  which  interest  and  athuiration  are 
strangely  mingled. 

LADY   MACBETH. 

He  has  almost  supp'd :  why  have  you  left  the  chamber  ? 

MACBETH. 

Hath  he  ask'd  for  me? 

LADY   MACBETH. 

Know  you  not  he  has  ? 

MACBETH. 

We  will  proceed  no  further  in  this  business : 
He  hath  honored  me  of  late,  and  I  have  bouglit 
Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people, 
Which  would  be  worn  now  in  tlieir  newest  glos-i, 
Not  cast  aside  so  soon. 

LADY     MACBETH. 

Was  the  hope  drunk, 
Wlierein  you  dress'd  yourself?  hath  it  slept  sinco, 
And  wakes  it  now  to  look  so  green  and  pale 
At  what  it  did  so  freely?     From  this   time 
Such  I  account  thy  love.     Art  thou   afeard 
To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act  and  valor, 
As  thou  art  in  desire  ?     Would'st  thou  have  that 
Which  thou  estecm'st  the  ornament  of  life, 
And  live  a  coward  in  thine  own  esteem; 
Letting  I  dare  not  wait  upon  I  would, 
Like  the  poor  cat  i'  the  adage? 


3;>j  LADY    I\I  A  C  B  E  T  H  . 


Pr'ythee  peace : 
I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man  ; 
Who  dares  do  more  is  none. 

LADY    MACBETH. 

What  beast  was  it  then, 
Tliat  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ? 
Where  you  durst  do  it,  there  you  were  a  man ; 
And  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.     Nor  time   nor  place 
Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make  both  ; 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness  now 
Does  unmake  you.     I  have  given  suck,  and  know 
How  tender  'tis  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me : 
I  would,  while  it  were  smiling  in  my  face, 
Have  pluck'd  my  nipple  from  his  boneless  gums, 
And  dash'd  the  brains  out,  had  I  so  sworn,  as  you 
Have  done  to  this. 

MACBETH. 

If  we  should  fail, 

LADY    MACBETH. 

We  fail* 
But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking- place, 
And  we'll  not  fail. 

Again,  in  the  murdering  scene,  the  obdurate  inflexibility  of 
purpose   with  which    she    drives   on   Macbeth    to   the    execution   of 

*  In  her  impersonation  of  the  part  of  Lady  Macbeth,  Mrs.  Siddons  adopted 
successively  three  different  intonations  in  giving  the  words  wc  fail.  At  first  a  quick 
contemptuous  interrogation — "we  fail  1"  Afterwards  with  the  note  of  admiration— 
we  fail !  and  an  accent  of  indignant  astonishment,  laying  the  principal  emphasis  on 
the  word  we — we  fail !  Lastly,  she  fixed  on  what  I  am  convinced  is  the  true 
reading — we  fail,  with  the  simple  period,  modulating  her  voice  to  a  deep,  low, 
resolute  tone,  which  settled  the  issue  at  once — as  though  she  had  said,  "  if  we 
fail,  why  then  we  fail,  and  all  is  over.  "  This  is  consistent  with  the  dark  fatalism 
of  the  character  and  the  sense  of  the  line  following,  and  the  effect  was  sublime, 
almost  awful 


LADY    MACBETH.  S" 

„,eir   project,\,.l    her    masculine    indifference  to  blood   and    death, 
«„uld  inspire  unmitigated  disgust  and  honor,  but  for  the  .nvoluntary 
consciousness  that  it   is  produced  rather  by  the  exert.on  of  a  strong 
power  over  herself,   than  by   absolute    depravty   of   d.spos.t.on    and 
ferocity  of    temper.      This    impression  of   her   character  >s  brought 
home  at  once  to  our  very  hearts  with  the  most  profound  knowledge 
of    the  springs  of    nature  within  us,  the   most  sul,tle  mastery  over 
the>r  var  ous    operations,  and   a  feeling  of    dramat.c  e  iec     not     e. 
wonderful.      The   very  passages    in   which    Lady    Macbeth      ,spla 
the  most  savage  and  relentless  determination,  are  so   worded  as   to 
fill  the  mind  with  the  idea  of   sex,   and    place  the    «ma»  before 
us  in  all  her  dearest  attributes,  at  once  softening  and   refin.ng    he 
horror,   and  rendering   it  more   intense.     Th^,  when  she   reproaches 
her  husbantl  for   his   weakness— 

From  this  time 
Such  I  account  thy  love  ! 

Again, 

Come  to  my  woman's  breasts, 
And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  ye  murdering  ministei-s, 
That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  &c. 

1  have  given  suck,  and  know  how  tender  'tis 
To  love  the  babe  that  milks  me,  &.c. 

And    lastly,    in    the     moment    of    extremest   horror    comes    that 
unetpected  tlicU  of  feeling,  so   startling,    yet   so  wonderfully  true  to 


nature. 


Had  he  not  resembled  my  father  as  he  slept, 
I  had  done  it! 


Thus  in  one  of  Weber's  or  Beethoven's  grand  symphonies,  some 
JZ^Z  ft  minor  chord  or  passage  will  steal  on  the  ear,  hea,. 
TJt  magnificent  crash  of  harmony,  making  the  blood  pa.sc, 
and   fdling  the   eye   with   unbidden  tears. 


32-  L  A  D  V     M  A  C  B  E  T  II  . 

It  is  particularly  observable,  that  in  Lady  Macbcth's  cci.ccntratcd. 
strong-nerved  ambition,  the  ruling  passion  of  her  mind,  there  is 
yet  a  touch  of"  womanhood:  she  is  ambitious  less  for  herself  than 
for  her  husband.  It  is  fair  to  think  this,  because  we  have  no 
reason  to  draw  any  other  inference  either  from  her  M'ortls  or 
actions.  In  her  famous  soliloquy,  after  reading  her  husband's 
letter,  she  does  not  once  refer  to  herself.  It  is  of  him  she  thinks : 
she  wishes  to  see  her  husband  on  the  throne,  and  to  place  the 
sceptre  within  his  grasp.  The  strength  of  her  affections  adds 
strength  to  her  ambition.  Although  in  the  old  story  of  Boethius 
we  are  told  that  the  wife  of  JNIacbeth  "  burned  with  unquenchable 
desire  to  bear  the  name  of  queen,"  yet  in  the  aspect  under  which 
Shakspeare  has  represented  the  character  to  us,  the  selfish  part  of 
this  ambition  is  kept  out  of  sight.  We  must  remark  also,  that 
in  Lady  IVIacbeth's  reflections  on  her  husband's  character,  and  on 
that  milkiness  of  nature,  which  she  fears  "may  impede  him  from 
the  golden  round,"  there  is  no  indication  of  female  scorn :  there 
is  exceeding  pride,  but  no  egotism  in  the  sentiment  or  the 
expression  ; — no  want  of  wifely  and  womanly  respect  and  love 
for  ]iim,  but  on  the  contrary,  a  sort  of  unconsciousness  of  her 
own  mental  superiority,  which  she  betrays  rather  than  asserts, 
as  interesting  in  itself  as  it  is  most  admirably  conceived  and 
delineated. 


Claniis  tliou  art,  and  Cawdor  ;  and  shalt  bo 

What  thou  art  promised : — Yet  do  I  fear  thy  nature ; 

It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  o'  human  kindness, 

To  catch  the  nearest  way.     Thou  would'st  be  great ; 

Art  not  without  ambition ;    but  without 

The  illness  should  attend  it.     What  thou  would'st  highly, 

That  would'st  thou  holily ;    would'st  not  play  false, 

And  yet  would'st  wrongly  win  :    thou'dst  have,  great  Glamis, 

That  which  cries.    This  thou  mnsL  do,  if  thou  have  it; 

And  thai  ichich  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do, 

Than  wishest  should  be  undone.     Hie  thee  hither. 

That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  car, 

And  chastise  with  tiie  valor  of  my   tongue 

Al!  that  impedes  thee  frcn  the  golden  round, 


L  A  D  Y    iM  A  C  B  E  T  H  .  329 

Which  fate  and  metaphysical*  aid  doth  seem 
To  have  thee  crowned  withal. 


Nor  is  there  anything  vulgar  in  her  ambition :  as  the  strength 
of  her  affections  lends  to  it  something  profound  and  concentrated, 
so  her  splendid  imagination  invests  the  object  of  her  desire  with 
its  own  radiance.  We  cannot  trace  in  her  grand  and  capacious 
mind  that  it  is  the  mere  baubles  and  trappings  of  royalty  which 
dazzle  and  allure  her:  hers  is  the  sin  of  the  "star-brifht 
apostate,"  and  she  plunges  with  her  husband  into  the  abyss  of 
guilt,  to  procure  for  "  all  their  days  and  nights  sole  "sovereign 
sway  and  masterdom. "  She  revels,  she  luxuriates  in  her  dream 
of  power.  She  reaches  at  the  golden  diadem  which  is  to  sear 
her  brain ;  she  perils  life  and  soul  for  its  attainment,  with  an 
enthusiasm  as  perfect,  a  faith  as  settled  as  that  of  the  martyr, 
who  sees  at  the  stake,  heaven  and  its  crowns  of  glory  opening 
upon    him. 

Great  Glamis  I    worthy  Cawdor  ! 
Greater  than  both  by  the  all-hail  hereafter ! 
Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 
This  ifrnorant  present,  and  I  feel  now 
Tho  future  in  the  instant ! 

This  is  surely  the  very  rapture  of  ambition !  and  those  who 
have  heard  Mrs.  Siddonj  pronounce  the  word  h?.)\iafter,  cannot 
forget  the  look,  the  tone,  which  seemed  to  give  her  auditors  a 
glimpse  of  that  awful  future,  which  she,  in  her  prophetic  fury, 
beholds   upon   the    instant. 

But  to  return  to  the  text  before  us:  Lady  Macbeth  having 
proposed  the  object  to  herself  and  arrayed  it  with  an  ideal  glory, 
fixes  her  eye  steadily  upon  it,  soars  far  above  all  womanish 
feelings  and  scruples  to  attain  it,  and  stoops  upon  her  victim 
with  the  strength  and  velocity  of  a  vulture  ;  but  having  committed 
unflinchingly  the  crime  necessary  for  the  attainment   of  her  purpose, 


*  Metaphysical  is  bero  u»ed  la  tbo  senag  oX  splrituai  or  prctenutoral. 

42 


330  L  A  D  Y    iM  A  C  B  E  T  H  . 

she  stops  there.  After  the  murder  of  Duncan,  we  see  Lady 
Macbeth,  during  the  rest  of  the  play,  occupied  in  supporting  the 
nervous  weakness  and  sustaining  the  fortitude  of  her  husband ;  for 
instance,  Macbeth  is  at  one  time  on  the  verge  of  frenzy,  between 
fear  and  horror,  and  it  is  clear  that  if  she  loses  her  self-command, 
both  must   perish. 


One  cried,  God  help  us !   and  Amen !   the  other, 
As  they  had  seen  me  with  these  hangman's  hands 
Listening  their  fear,  I  could  not  say  Amen ! 
When  they  did  cry  God  hless  us ! 

LADY    MACBETH. 

Consider  it  not  so  deeply! 


But  wherefore  could  not  I  pronounce  amen? 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  amen 
Stuck  in  rny  throat. 

LADY     MACBETH. 

These  deeds  must  not  be  thought  on 
After  these  ways :  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 


Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry, 
"  Sleep  no  more,"  &c.,  &c. 

LADY    MACBETH. 

What  do  you  mean  ?  who  was  it  that  thus  cried  ? 

Why,  worthy  Thane, 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength  to  think 
So  brainsickly  of  things. — Go,  get  some  water,  &c.,  &c. 

Afterwards  in  act  iii    she  is  represented  as  muttering  to  herself, 

Nought's  had,  all's  spent, 
When  our  desire  is  got  without  content ; 


LADY    MACBETH.  831 

yet  immediately  addresses  her  moody  and  conscience-stricken  hus- 
band— 

How  now,  my  lord  ?  why  do  yoti  kdep  alone, 
Of  sorriest  fancies  your  companions  making; 
Using  those  thoughts,  which  should  indeed  have  died 
With  them  they  think  on?    Things  without  remedy 
Should  be  without  regard ;  what 's  done,  is  done. 

But  she  is  nowhere  represented  as  urging  him  on  to  new  crimes: 
so  far  from  it,  that  when  Macbeth  darkly  hints  his  purposed 
assassination   of    Banquo,   and    she    inquires  his  meaning,   he   replies, 

Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest  chuck, 
Till  thou  approve  the  deed. 

The  same  may  be  said  of  the  destruction  of  Macduff's  family. 
Every  one  must  perceive  how  our  detestation  of  the  woman  had 
been  increased,  if  she  had  been  placed  before  us  as  suggesting  and 
abetting  those  additional  cruelties  into  which  Macbeth  is  hurried 
by   his   mental   cowardice. 

If  my  feeling  of  Lady  Macbeth's  character  be  just  to  the 
conception  of  the  poet,  then  she  is  one  who  could  steel  herself 
to  the  commission  of  a  crime  from  necessity  and  expediency,  and 
be  daringly  wicked  for  a  great  end,  but  not  likely  to  perpetrate 
gratuitous  murders  from  any  vague  or  selfish  fears.  I  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  the  perfect  confidence  existing  between  herself 
and  Macbeth  could  possibly  leave  her  in  ignorance  of  his  actions 
or  designs ;  that  heart-broken  and  shuddering  allusion  to  the 
murder  of  Lady  Macduff  (in  the  sleeping  scene)  proves  the 
contrary : — 

The  thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife ;  where  is  she  now  ? 

But  she  is  nowhere  brought  before  us  in  immediate  connexion 
with  these  horrors,  and  we  are  spared  any  flagrant  proof  of  her 
participation  in  them.  This  may  not  strike  us  at  first,  but  most 
undoubtedly  has  an  effect  on  the  general  bearing  of  the  character, 
considered   as   a   whole. 


332  LADY    MACBETH. 

Another  more  obvious  and  pervading  source  of  interest  arises 
from  that  bond  of  entire  affection  and  confidence,  which,  through 
tlie  whole  of  this  cheadful  tissue  of  crime  and  its  consequences, 
unites  Macbeth  and  his  wife;  claiming  from  us  an  involuntary 
respect  and  sympathy,  and  shedding  a  softening  influence  over  the 
whole  tragedy.  Macbeth  leans  upon  her  strength,  trusts  in  he) 
fidelity,   and   throws   himself  on   her  tenderness. 

O  full  of  scorpions  is  my  mind,  dear  wife ! 

She  sustains  him,  calms  him,  soothes    him 


Come  on ; 
Gentle  my  lord,  sleek  o'er  your  rugged  looks ; 
Be  bright  and  jovial  'mong  your  guests  to-night. 


The  endearing  epithets,  the  terms  of  fondness  in  which  he 
addresses  her,  and  the  -tone  of  respect  she  invariably  maintains 
towards  him,  even  when  most  exasperated  by  his  vacillation  of 
mind  and  his  brain-sick  terrors,  have  by  the  very  force  of  contrast 
a   powerful   effect    on   the   fancy. 

By  these  tender  redeeming  touches  we  are  impressed  with  a 
feeling  that  Lady  Macbeth's  influence  over  the  affections  of  her 
husband,  as  a  wife  and  a  woman,  is  at  least  equal  to  her  power 
over  him  as  a  superior  mind.  Another  thing  has  always  struck 
me.  During  the  supper  scene,  in  which  Macbeth  is  haunted  by 
the  spectre  of  the  murdered  Banquo,  and  his  reason  appears 
unsettled  by  the  extremity  of  his  horror  and  dismay,  her  indignant 
rebuke,  her  low  whispered  remonstrance,  the  sarcastic  emphasis 
with  which  she  combats  his  sick  fancies,  and  endeavors  to  recall 
him  to  himself,  have  an  intenseness,  a  severity,  a  bitterness,  which 
makes  the  blood  creep. 

LADY  MACBETH. 

Are  you  a  man  ? 


LADr    MACBETH.  333 


MACBETH. 

Ay,  and  a  bold  one,  that  dare  look  on  that 
Which  might  appal  the  devil. 

LADY   MACBETH. 

O  proper  stuff! 
This  is  the  very  painting  of  your  fear : 
This  is  the  air-drawn  dagger,  which  you  said 
Led  you  to  Duncan.     O,  these  flaws  and   slaita 
(Impostors  to  true  fear)  would  well  become 
A  woman's  story  at  a  winter's  fire, 
Authoriz'd  by  her  grandam !     Shame  itself! 
Why  do  you  make  such  faces  ?  When  all 's  done 
You  look  but  on  a  stool. 

What !  quite  unmann'd  in  folly  ? 

Yet  wlien  the  guests  are  dismissed,  and  they  are  left  alone, 
she  says  no  more,  and  not  a  syllable  of  reproach  or  scorn 
escapes  her;  a  few  words  in  submissive  reply  to  his  questions, 
and  an  entreaty  to  seek  repose,  are  all  she  permits  herself  to 
utter.  There  is  a  touch  of  pathos  and  of  tenderness  in  this 
silence  Avhich  has  always  affected  me  beyond  expression ;  it  is 
one  of  the  most  masterly  and  the  most  beautiful  traits  of  character 
in  the  whole  play. 

Lastly,  it  is  clear  that  in  a  mind  constituted  like  that  of  Lady 
Macbeth,  and  not  utterly  depraved  and  hardened  by  the  habit  of 
crime,  conscience  must  wake  some  time  or  other,  and  bring  with  it 
remorse  closed  by  despair,  and  despair  by  death.  This  great  moral 
retribution  was  to  be  displayed  to  us — but  how?  Lady  Macbeth  is 
not  a  woman  to  start  at  shadows ;  she  mocks  at  air-drawn  daggers ; 
she  sees  no  imagined  spectres  rise  from  the  tomb  to  appal  or  accuse 
her.*  The  towering  bravery  of  her  mind  disdains  the  visionary 
terrors  which  haunt   her  weaker  husband.      We    know,  or   rather    we 

*Mrs.  Siddons,  I  believe,  had  an  idea  that  Lady  Marbeth  beheld  the  sprclre 
of  Banquo  in  the  supper  scene,  and  that  her  self-control  and  presence  of  uiiiid 
enabled  her  to  surmount  her  consciousness  of  the  ghastly  presence.  Tliis  would 
be  superhuman,  and  I  do  not  see  that  cither  the  character  or  the  text  bear  out 
this   supposition. 


?'.34  LADY    M  A  C  B  E  T  M . 

tee],  that  she  who  could  give  a  voice  to  the  most  direful  intent,  and 
call  on  the  spirits  that  wait  on  mortal  thoughts  to  "  unsex  her,"  and 
"stop  up  all  access  and  passage  of  remorse" — to  that  remorse  would 
have  given  nor  tongue  nor  sound  ;  and  that  rather  than  have  uttered 
a  complaint,  she  would  have  held  her  breath  and  died.  To  have 
given  her  a  confidant,  though  in  the  partner  of  her  guilt,  would  have 
been  a  degrading  resource,  and  have  disappointed  and  enfeebled  all 
our  previous  impressions  of  her  character ;  yet  justice  is  to  be  done, 
and  we  are  to  be  made  acquainted  with  that  which  the  woman 
herself  would  have  suffered  a  thousand  deaths  of  torture  rather  than 
have  betrayed.  In  the  sleeping  scene  we  have  a  glimpse  into  the 
depths  of  that  inward  hell :  the  seared  brain  and  broken  heart  are 
laid  bare  before  us  in  the  helplessness  of  slumber.  By  a  judgment 
the  most  sublime  ever  imagined,  yet  the  most  unforced,  natural,  and 
inevitable,  the  sleep  of  her  who  murdered  sleep  is  no  longer  repose, 
but  a  condensation  of  resistless  horrors  which  the  prostrate  intellect 
and  the  powerless  will  can  neither  bafile  nor  repel.  We  shudder 
and  are  satisfied ;  yet  our  hmnan  sympathies  are  again  touched : 
we  rather  sigh  over  the  ruin  than  exult  in  it ;  and  after  watching 
her  through  this  wonderful  scene  with"  a  sort  of  fascination,  we 
dismiss  the  unconscious,  helpless,  despair-stricken  murderess,  with  a 
feeling  which  Lady  Macbeth,  in  her  w^aking  strength,  with 
all  her  aw^e-commanding  powers  about  her,  could  never  have 
excited. 

It  is  here  especially  we  perceive  that  sweetness  of  nature  which 
in  Shakspeare  went  hand  in  hand  with  his  astonishing  powers. 
He  never  confounds  that  line  of  demarcation  which  eternally  separates 
good  from  evil,  yet  he  never  places  evil  before  us  without  exciting 
in  some  way  a  consciousness  of  the  opposite  good  which  shall  balance; 
and   relieve    it. 

I  do  deny  that  he  has  represented  in  Lady  Macbeth  a  woman 
" naturally  cruel^^  *  *'  invariably  savage"  f  or  endued  with 
^^ pure  demoniac  Jirmness.  "  X  If  ever  there  could  have  existed  a 
woman  to  whom  such  phrases  could  apply — a  woman  without 
touch    of    modesty,    pity   or    fear, — Shakspeare    knew    that  a  thing 

•Cumberland.  t Professor  Richardson.  JForster's  Essays. 


L  A  D  Y    M  A  C  B  E  T  H  .  335 

so  monstrous  was  unfit  for  all  the  purposes  of  poetry.  If  Lady 
Macbeth  had  been  naturally  cruel,  she  needed  not  so  solemnly  to 
have  abjured  all  pity,  and  called  on  the  spirits  that  wait  on  mortal 
thoughts  to  unsex  herj  nor  would  she  have  been  loved  to  excess 
by  a  man  of  Macbeth's  character;  for  it  is  the  sense  of  intellectual 
energy,  and  strength  of  will  overpowering  her  feminine  nature, 
which   draws   from   him   that   burst  of  intense   admiration — 

Bring  forth  men  children  onl}^ 
For  thy  undaunted  metal  should  compose 
Nothing  but  males. 

If  she  had  been  invariably  savage,  her  love  would  not  have 
comforted  and  sustained  her  husband  in  his  despair,  nor  would  her 
uplifted  dagger  have  been  arrested  by  a  dear  and  venerable  imao-e 
rising  between  her  soul  and  its  fell  purpose.  If  endued  with  piire 
demoniac  firmness,  her  woman's  nature  would  not,  by  the  reaction, 
have  been  so  horribly  avenged, — she  would  not  have  died  of  remorse 
and   despair. 

******** 

We  cannot  but  observe,  that  through  the  whole  of  the  dialogue 
appropriated  to  Lady  Macbeth,  there  is  something  very  peculiar 
and  characteristic  in  the  turn  of  expression;  her  compliments,  when 
she  is  playing  the  hostess  or  the  queen,  are  elaborately  elegant 
and  verbose :  but  when  in  earnest,  she  speaks  in  short  energetic 
sentences — sometimes  abrupt,  but  always  full  of  meanino-;  her 
thoughts  are  rapid  and  clear,  her  expressions  forcible,  and  the 
imagery  like  sudden  flashes  of  lightning :  all  the  forego ino- 
extracts  exhibit  this,  but  I  will  venture  one  more,  as  an  immediate 
illustration. 

MACBETH. 

My  dearest  love, 
Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

tADT     MACBETH. 

And  when  goes  benco"? 


H;^a  LAD  Y    M  A  C  B  E  T  H  . 

MACBETH. 

To-morroWj — as  lie  purposes. 

LADY   MACBETU. 

O  never 
Shall  sun  that  morrow  see  ! 
Thy  face,  my  Thane,  is  as  a  book,  where  men 
May  read  strange  matters.     To  beguile  the  time, 
Look  like  the  time,  bear  welcome  in  your  eye, 
Your  tongue,  your  hand ;  look  like  the  innocent  flower, 
But  be  the  serpent  under  it. 

\Miat  would  not  the  firmness,  the  self-command,  the  enthusiasm, 
the  intellect,  the  ardent  affections  of  this  woman  have  performed,  if 
properly  directed  ?  But  the  object  being  unworthy  of  the  effort,  the 
end  is  disappointment,  despair,  and  death. 

The  power  of  religion  could  alone  have  controlled  such  a  mind  j 
but  it  is  the  misery  of  a  very  proud,  strong,  and  gifted  spirit, 
without  sense  of  religion,  that  instead  of  looking  upward  to  find 
a  superior,  it  looks  round  and  sees  all  things  as  subject  to  itself. 
Lady  Macbeth  is  placed  in  a  dark,  ignorant,  iron  age ;  her 
powerful  intellect  is  slightly  tinged  with  its  credulity  and  superstition, 
but  she  has  no  religious  feeling  to  restrain  the  force  of  will. 
She  is  a  stern  fatalist  in  principle  and  action — "what  is  done,  is 
done,"  and  would  be  done  over  again  under  the  same  circumstances; 
her  remorse  is  without  repentance,  or  any  reference  to  an  offended 
Deity ;  it  arises  from  the  pang  of  a  wounded  conscience,  the  recoil 
of  the  violated  feelings  of  nature ;  it  is  the  horror  of  the  past, 
not  the  terror  of  the  future ;  the  torture  of  self-condemnation,  not 
the  fear  of  judgment;  it  is  strong  as  her  soul,  deep  as  her  guilt, 
fatal   as   her  resolve,   and   terrible   as  her   crime. 

If  it  should  be  objected  to  this  view  of  Lady  Macbeth's 
character,  that  it  engages  our  sympathies  in  behalf  of  a  perverted 
being — and  that  to  leave  her  so  strong  a  power  upon  oui 
feelings,  in  the  midst  of  such  supreme  wickedness,  involves  a 
moral  wrong,  I  can  only  reply  in  the  words  of  Dr.  Channing, 
that  '•'  ia  this  and    the  like    cases,  our  interest  fastens  on  what  is 


LADY    lAI  A  C  B  E  T  H  .  337 

not  evil  in  the  character — that  there  is  somethino;  kindlino;  and 
ennobling  in  the  consciousness,  however  awakened,  of  the  energy 
which  resides  in  mind ;  and  many  a  virtuous  man  has  borrowed 
new  strength  from  the  force,  constancy,  and  dauntless  com'age  of 
evil    agents. "  * 

This  is  true  ;  and  might  he  not  have  added  that  many  a  powerful 
and  gifted  spirit  has  learnt  humility  and  self-govermnent,  from 
beholding  how  far  the  energy  which  resides  in  mind  may  be 
degraded   and   perverted  ? 

******* 

In  general,  when  a  woman  is  introduced  into  a  tragedy,  to  be 
the  presiding  genius  of  evil  in  herself,  or  the  cause  of  evil  to 
others,  she  is  either  too  feebly  or  too  darkly  portrayed ;  either 
crime  is  heaped  on  crime,  and  horror  on  horror,  till  our  sympathy 
is  lost  in  incredulity,  or  the  stimulus  is  sought  in  unnatural  or 
vimpossible  situations,  or  in  situations  that  ought  to  be  impossible 
(as  in  the  Myrrha  or  the  Cenci),  or  the  character  is  enfeebled 
by  a  mixture  of  degrading  propensities  and  sexual  weakness,  as  in 
Vittoria  Corombona.  But  Lady  Macbeth,  though  so  supremely 
wicked,  and  so  consistently  feminine,  is  still  kept  aloof  from  all 
base  alloy.  When  Shakspeare  created  a  female  character  purely 
detestable,  he  made  her  an  accessory,  never  a  principal.  Thus 
Regan  and  Goneril  are  two  powerful  sketches  of  selfishness,  cruelty 
and  ingratitude;  we  abhor  them  whenever  we  see  or  think  of 
them,  but  we  think  very  little  about  them,  except  as  necessary 
to  the  action  of  the  drama.  They  are  to  cause  the  madness 
of  Lear,  and  to  call  forth  the  filial  devotion  of  Cordelia,  and 
their  depravity  is  forgotten  in  its  effects.  A  comparison  has 
been  made  between  Lady  Macbeth  and  the  Greek  Clytemnestra 
in  the  Agamemnon  of  Eschylus.  The  Clytemnestra  of  Sophocles 
is  something  more  in  Shakspeare's  spirit,  for  she  is  something 
less  impudently  atrocious;  but,  considered  as  a  woman  and 
an    individual,  would    any   one    compare    this    shameless    adulteress, 


*See   Dr.    Channing's    remarks    on    Satan,   in   his   essay  "On   the    Character   and 
Writings  of  Milton." — Works,  p.  131. 

43 


338  LADY    M  A  C  B  E  T  H  . 

cruel  murderess,  and  unnatural  mother,  with  Lady  Macbeth  1  Lady 
Macbeth  herself  would    certainly   shrink   from   the    approximation.  * 

The  Electra  of  Sophocles  comes  nearer  to  Lady  Macbeth  as  a 
poetical  conception,  wMth  this  strong  distinction,  that  she  commands 
more  respect  and  esteem,  and  less  sympathy.  The  murder  in 
which  she  participates  is  ordained  by  the  oracle — is  an  act  of 
justice,  and  therefore  less  a  murder  than  a  sacrifice.  Electra  is 
drawn  wuth  magnificent  simplicity  and  intensity  of  feeling  and 
purpose,  but  there  is  a  want  of  light,  and  shade,  and  relief. 
Thus  the  scene  in  which  Orestes  stabs  his  mother  w^ithin  her 
chamber,  and  she  is  heard  pleading  for  mercy,  while  Electra  standa 
forward,  listening  exultingly  to  her  mother's  cries,  and  urging  her 
brother  to  strike  again,  "  another  blow !  another ! "  &c.,  is  terribly 
fine,  but  the  horror  is  too  shocking,  too  pltysical — if  I  may  use 
such  an  expression :  it  will  not  surely  bear  a  comparison  with  the 
murdering  scene  in  Macbeth,  where  the  exhibition  of  various 
passions — the  irresolution  of  Macbeth,  the  bold  determination  of 
his  wife,  the  deep  suspense,  the  rage  of  the  elements  without,  the 
horrid  stillness  within,  and  the  secret  feeling  of  that  infernal 
agc:iv'y  which  is  ever  present  to  the  fancy,  even  when  not  visible 
on  the  scene — throw  a  rich  coloring  of  poetry  over  the  whole, 
which  does  not  take  from  "  the  present  horror  of  the  time,"  and 
yet  relieves  it.  Shakspeare's  blackest  shadows  are  like  those  of 
Rembrandt ;  so  intense,  that  the  gloom  which  brooded  over  Egypt 
in  her  day  of  wrath  was  pale  in  comparison — yet  so  transparent 
that   we   seem   to   see   the   light   of  heaven   through   their   depth. 

Li    the    w^hole    compass    of    dramatic    poetry,   there     is    but    one 

*  The  vision  of  Clyteinnestra  the  night  before  she  i3  miu-clered,  in  which  she 
dreams  that  she  has  given  birth  to  a  dragon,  and  that  in  laying  it  to  her  bosom,  it 
draws  blood  instead  of  milic,  lias  been  greatly  admired,  but  I  suppose  that  those 
who  most  admire  it  would  not  place  it  in  comparison  with  Lady  Macbeth's  sleeping 
scene.  Lady  Ashton,  in  the  Bride  of  Lammermoor,  is  a  domestic  Lady  Macbeth ; 
but  the  development  being  in  the  narrative,  not  the  dramatic  form,  it  follows  hence 
that  we  have  a  masterly  portrait,  not  a  complete  individual :  and  the  relief  of 
poetry  and  sympathy  being  wanting,  the  devastation  she  inspires  is  so  unmixed  as 
to  be  almost  intolerable  :  consequently  the  character,  considered  in  relation  to  the 
other  personages  of  the  story,  is  perfect;  but  abstractedly  it  is  imperfect;  a  basso 
relievo — not  a  statue 


L  A  D  Y    M  A  C  B  E  T  H  .  339 

female  character  which  can  be  placed  near  that  of  Lady  Macbeth ; 
the  Medea.  Not  the  vulgar,  voluble  fury  of  the  Latin  Tragedy,* 
nor  the  Medea  in  a  hoop  petticoat  of  Corneille,  but  the  genuine 
Greek   Medea — the   Medea  of  Euripides,  f 

There  is  something  in  the  Medea  which  seizes  irresistibly 
on  the  imagination.  Her  passionate  devotion  to  Jason,  for  whom 
she  had  left  her  parents  and  country — to  whom  she  had  given  all, 
and 

Would   have  drawn  the  spirit  from  her  breast 
Had  he  but  asked  it,  sighing  forth  her  soul 
Into  his  bosom,{ 

the  wrongs  and  insults  which  drive  her  to  desperation — the  horrid 
refinement  of  cruelty,  with  which  she  plans  and  executes  her 
revenge  upon  her  faithless  husband — the  gush  of  fondness  with 
which  she  weeps  over  her  children,  whom  in  the  next  moment  she 
devotes  to  destruction  in  a  paroxysm  of  insane  fury,  carry  the 
terror  and  pathos  of  tragic  situation  to  their  extreme  height.  But 
if  we  may  be  allowed  to  judge  through  the  medium  of  a  translation, 
there  is  a  certain  hardness  in  the  manner  of  treating  the  character 
which  m  some  degree  defeats  the  effect.  Medea  talks  too  much ; 
her  human  feelings  and  superhuman  power  are  not  sufficiently 
blended.  Taking  into  consideration  the  different  impulses  which 
actuate  Medea'  and  Lady  Macbeth,  as  love,  jealousy,  and  revenge 
on  the  one  side,  and  ambition  on  the  other,  we  expect  to  find 
more  of  female  nature  in  the  first  than  in  the  last :  and  yet 
the  contrary  is  the  fact :  at  least  my  own  impression,  as  far  as  a 
woman  may  judge  of  a  woman,  is,  that  although  the  pasa-ions  of 
Medea  are  more  feminine,  the  character  is  less  so  :  we  seem  to 
require  more  feeling  in  her  fierceness,  more  passion  in  her  frenzy : 
something  less  of    poetical   abstraction, — less   art,  fewer  words :    her 


*  Attributed  to  Seneca. 

t  A  comparison  has  already  been  made  in  an  article  in  the  "  Reflector."  It  will 
bo  seen  on  a  reference  to  that  very  masterly  Essay,  that  I  differ  from  the  author  in 
his  conception  of  Lady  Macbeth'a  character. 

X  Apollonius  Rhodius.— Vide  Elton's  Specimens  of  the  Classic  Poets. 


340  L  A  D  Y    M  A  C  B  E  T  H  . 

delirious  vengeance  we   might  forgive,  but  her  calmness  and  subtlety 
are   rather  revolting. 

These  two  admirable  characters,  placed  in  contrast  to  each  other, 
afford  a  fine  illustration  of  Schlegel's  distinction  between  the 
ancient  or  Greek  drama,  which  he  compares  to  sculpture,  and  the 
modern  or  romantic  drama,  which  he  compares  to  painting.  The 
gothic  grandeur,  the  rich  chiaroscuro,  and  deep-toned  colors  of 
Lady  Macbeth,  stand  thus  opposed  to  the  classical  elegance  and 
mythological  splendor,  the  delicate  yet  inflexible  outline  of  the 
Medea.  If  I  might  be  penuitted  to  carry  this  illustration  still 
further,  I  would  add,  that  there  exists  the  same  distinction  betsveen 
the  Lady  Macbeth  and  the  Medea,  as  between  the  Medusa  of 
Leonardo  da  Vinci  and  the  Medusa  of  the  Greek  gems  and  bas- 
reliefs.  In  the  painting  the  horror  of  the  subject  is  at  once 
exalted  and  softened  by  the  most  vivid  coloring  and  the  most 
magical  contrast  of  light  and  shade.  We  gaze — until  from  the 
murky  depths  of  the  back-ground,  the  serpent-hair  seems  to 
stir  and  glitter  as  if  instinct  with  life,  and  the  head  itself,  in 
all  its  ghastliness  and  brightness,  appears  to  rise  from  the 
canvass  with  the  glare  of  reality.  In  the  Medusa  of  sculpture 
how  different  is  the  effect  on  the  imagination !  We  have  here 
the  snakes  convolving  round  the  winged  and  graceful  head  :  the 
brows  contracted  with  horror  and  pain ;  but  every  feature  is 
chiselled  into  the  most  regular  and  faultless  perfection,  and  amid 
the  gorgon  terrors,  there  rests  a  marbly,  fixed,  supernatural  grace, 
which,  without  reminding  us  for  a  moment  of  common  life  or 
nature,   stands  before   us  a  presence,   a  power,  and  an   enchantment ! 


THE      END. 


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